


Harmonies of a Second Chance: A Side Story Collection for AMOSC

by SecretEnigma



Series: A Melody of Second Chances verse [2]
Category: Transformers (Bay Movies), Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers: Prime
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Backstory, Don't copy to another site, F/M, Fluff and Humor, Gen, Or most of these won't make sense, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Read A Melody of Second Chances First, Romance, depends on the chapter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-04
Updated: 2020-07-04
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:40:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 59,934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25074007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SecretEnigma/pseuds/SecretEnigma
Summary: A collection of one-shots (and two-shots) that take place before or during A Melody of Second Chances. Tone and subject vary per chapter. Expect pranks, mysteries, angst, and fluff. Feel free to come read, but beware of flying wrenches from angry Medics of Doom, over paranoid Security Officers, Decepticons, and mischievous twin trouble times two.
Relationships: Chromia/Ironhide, Elita One/Optimus Prime, Jazz & Prowl, Megatron/Soundwave (Transformers), Sideswipe & Sunstreaker (Transformers) & Original Character(s), Ultra Magnus & OC, Ultra Magnus/OC
Series: A Melody of Second Chances verse [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1758883
Kudos: 13





	1. Reports and Fireworks

**Author's Note:**

> I'm moving these over from Fanfiction, and once again, I will just be mass posting them and then editing at my whim/leisure, so please forgive the older writing style and any grammatical/spelling errors.
> 
> This chapter is set just after AMOSC chapter 6 and before chapter 7

First Aid was calmly reorganizing a shelf of medical tools, the mindless work easing his wires and cables from a cycle of work. It had been surprisingly busy.

First, Chromia had dragged her sparkmate in, insisting he see one of the medics over his hip joint, which was giving him trouble again. Ironhide had protested the entire time First Aid worked on him, nearly swearing several times but luckily stopping before the words got out. _Good thing too, I’d hate to see what would happen if the twinlings started shouting expletives at Ratchet whenever they were in trouble. That wouldn’t end well._

After First Aid had seen to Ironhide, Jazz had mysteriously popped in complaining of a servo malfunction, claiming the offending appendage had a slow response time. While Ratchet had scanned the mech for what was wrong, Jazz had happily chatted with a Starwish. Of course, when Ratchet hadn’t been able to find anything wrong with Jazz’s servo, he had sent the saboteur packing with a wrench to the helm. First Aid privately suspected that the smaller mech had simply been looking for an excuse to visit Starwish.

Then the twinlings had disassembled one of their Energon Fusion converters and run away with the parts, setting off a long chase that had taken the combined efforts of himself, Ratchet, and Starwish to finally end. First Aid secretly wondered if someone was smuggling tools in to the little trouble makers just so they could pull stunts like that.

After Starwish had convinced Ratchet to let them out to explore or find some other outlet for their energy, Jazz had volunteered to keep an optic on them while Ironhide, Chromia and the others who knew of their existence kept watch to make sure no one entered the restricted area around the Rec Room. But then Ratchet had called all senior officers to an emergency meeting and left First Aid in charge of keeping an optic on the patients.

First Aid vented softly as he remembered Zip and Track discovering the energon dispenser in the corner of the Rec Room. Not something he wanted to ever repeat, to be sure.

His thoughts were jerked back to the present when he heard the medbay doors slide open, allowing the irate voices of Sunstreaker and Sideswipe be clearly heard. First Aid turned to face them and was not at all surprised to see that they had dents and scuffs. Sunstreaker looked very close to offlining his twin while Sideswipe made excuses over whatever it was that had started the trouble, “Totally not my fault, Sunny! Prime must be joking, that’s all!”

Sunstreaker snarled wordlessly at Sideswipe before shifting his gaze sharply to First Aid, “Need a fix.”

First Aid raised an optic ridge, “I can see that. Oh well, both of you on the berths over there and I’ll see what I can do.”

As First Aid started to work on the two, still arguing, twins, Motioncap trotted in, “Hey Aid! Where’s Ratchet? I’ve got a report for him from Prime.”

First Aid didn’t even look up from firmly pounding out a dent in Sunstreaker’s armor, “In his office. Careful, he isn’t in the best of moods.”

Motioncap snorted, “Is he ever? I’ll be quick.” First Aid grunted an acknowledgment as he carefully finished his dent removal and handed the armor piece back to Sunstreaker. _That meeting must have been important if it requires a follow up report._ About ten kliks later, First Aid heard Motioncap trot out of the medbay again, his report delivery complete. First Aid wasn’t surprised, the Autobot Runner was always fast when on the job.

Moving on to Sideswipe, First Aid was just adjusting a wire that had gotten knocked loose in the mech’s shoulder when a loud, explosive shout rattled his concentration. Sideswipe yowled as the wire was tweaked incorrectly, sending a spasm of pain up his shoulder and neck while First Aid leaped away with a yelp of surprise at the static jolt the misaligned wire had sparked. _What in the AllSpark?_

Ratchet came storming out of his office, the look on his faceplates dark enough to scare even Ironhide. Stomping past First Aid, a datapad clenched in one servo, Ratchet was snarling, “If Prime is serious about this … this mockery, I am going to offline him!” Pausing when he saw the twins, he unsubspaced a wrench and shook it threateningly at them, “And then I’ll come for you two!” With that, he was gone, striding angrily out of the medbay and off, presumably, to Optimus Prime’s location.

First Aid blinked a few times before turning to Sunstreaker and Sideswipe, who were both looking terrified, “Do you have any idea what that was about?”

Sunstreaker’s faceplates morphed into a scowl, “It’s all Sideswipe’s fault.”

* * *

Ultra Magnus inserted the data-stick Motioncap had just delivered to him into a datapad and began reading its contents. Optimus had already commed him that he was sending Motioncap with a list of what the refugees new living arrangements would be after they were released from the medbay. Reading the first entry, Hardwire’s, he nodded thoughtfully, it was a good idea to pair the large newcomer with the easy going ex-Wrecker.

His optic fell on the next entry, the twin younglings Zipline and Fast Track, and his frame stiffened, _he cannot be serious. Giving them to Sunstreaker and Sideswipe?_ Ultra Magnus pressed his lip components together and did his best to puzzle out his Prime’s logic. After all, it would not be in the report if Prime was not perfectly serious about it. Therefor, his leader had a logical, thought out reason for the pairing.

_Taking care of younglings would cut down their time to plan and execute pranks … Ironhide and Ratchet would most assuredly make sure they actually took care of the younglings. It also would serve a stark lesson in responsibility._ Ultra Magnus nodded to himself, those had to be the reasons. It would definitely be tricky in the beginning, getting the two front-liners to properly care for their charges, but in the long run, he could see the benefits it could provide.

Ultra Magnus scrolled down to the bottom of the report and instantly froze. Blinking, he reread the section, sure that he had simply misread it the first time. Much to his growing confusion and consternation, it stayed the same as before. _Impossible._

Subspacing the datapad, Ultra Magnus stood up firmly and strode out of his office for Optimus Prime’s. There was no possibility that the report was correct. He could **not** have just been assigned to be the guardian of the femling Starwish, it simply was not possible.

* * *

Prowl looked over the report he had just received from Motioncap thoroughly, going over it meticulously multiple times before accessing its coding to ensure it wasn’t a forgery. It wasn’t, not that Prowl really expected it to be a forgery, but it paid to be thorough.

With an exasperated flick of his doorwings, Prowl stood up and set out for Prime’s office. Someone would have to be there to stop Ratchet from trying to club Optimus offline with a wrench and the chances of Ultra Magnus being able to hold off the irate medic were 0.007% against. Not that his odds 0.020% were much better…

* * *

Optimus inwardly braced himself when he heard the sound of stomping pedes and as such didn’t even twitch when Ratchet burst in, shouting profanity and demanding explanations for the ‘glitching Decepticon joke of a report’. The enraged CMO was quickly followed by a tense and curt Ultra Magnus and a stoically silent Prowl. Holding up his servos for silence, Optimus hid his rueful smile as he asked, “What appears to be the problem? Ratchet, Ultra Magnus, Prowl?”

Ratchet got the first word in, “What’s the problem? The problem is you want to assign Sunstreaker and Sideswipe as guardians! Have you any idea what those two could **do** to those younglings? Both intentionally and not? Optimus!”

Ultra Magnus curtly cut in, “Sir, while I can see the logic behind assigning Sunstreaker and Sideswipe to the twin younglings-”

Ratchet interrupted, “Logic? What logic? **Nothing** involving those two slaggers has anything to do with logic!”

Ultra Magnus continued, shooting Ratchet a dark look as he did so, “The experience will no doubt enhance their maturity level and also cut down on the free time they constantly use for ‘pranks’.”

Ratchet scowled, “You are, of course, assuming that they won’t just shove the mechlings onto another available Autobot and prank anyway.”

Prowl stepped into the conversation, “They will be unable to do so, I will have orders issued throughout the base that as long as Sunstreaker and Sideswipe are off duty, no one else is to act as the younglings’ caretaker unless the base is under attack.”

Ratchet huffed, looking back and forth between the two tacticians with an expression of angered disbelief, “I can’t believe this!” An argument broke out then and there, with Ratchet refusing to back down on the illegitimacy of Sideswipe’s and Sunstreaker’s assigned guardianship, Prowl trying to reason with the medic and Ultra Magnus attempting to get a word in edgewise.

Finally, Optimus decided that his officers had argued with each other for too long and commanded sternly, “ **Enough**.” At his single word and the accompanying pulse from the Matrix of Leadership, the three arguing officers fell silent. Ratchet glared at him silently, daring the Prime to insist on Sunstreaker’s and Sideswipe’s impending guardianship.

Optimus folded his servos behind his back and matched Ratchet’s stare levelly until the medic had to avert his optics, “I am quite serious about every assignment in the report. Aside from the reasons stated by Ultra Magnus, as well as the fact that the twins could use a lesson in caring about others besides themselves, I believe that of all the mechs on base, Sunstreaker and Sideswipe are … uniquely positioned to care for Zipline’s and Fast Track’s special needs. They are split spark twins and as such are well acquainted with the idiosyncrasies and needs of such a pair. You stated it yourself once Ratchet, split spark younglings have different needs and raising requirements than normal younglings?”

Ratchet growled, irritated that his own words from a long ago conversation were being used against him now, “Yes. The systems of split spark twins do not take kindly to being separated for any lengthy period of time, their energy consumption is also unusual. There is a host of…” His vocalization trailed off when he realized he was only proving Optimus’s point.

Optimus hammered the point home by calmly adding, “In short, a normal mech would often be at a loss on how to care for them. Sunstreaker and Sideswipe however, would not be baffled when it came to the needs of split spark twins. Am I not correct, Ratchet?”

Ratchet remained silent for a few breems, his mouth components parted in a silent protest before he finally flung his servos in the air and snarled disgustedly, “ **Fine**! But when those two younglings come into my medbay needing repairs because Sideswipe tried to roughhouse with them or Sunstreaker found them in his art stash, it is not my fault!” Ratchet stormed out of the office, muttering something darkly about ‘preparing the medbay for the impending cataclysm’, leaving Ultra Magnus, Optimus, and Prowl in the office alone.

After waiting until the CMO was well out of audio range, Prowl turned to Optimus and said, “I understand the report and shall make the necessary preparations, sir.”

Optimus nodded, “Understood, Prowl. Dismissed.” Prowl nodded curtly and left the office, his doorwings bobbing slightly to his clipped stride.

The leader of all Autobots looked over patiently at his subtly fidgeting SiC, “Is there another matter you wish to discuss, Ultra Magnus?”

Ultra Magnus stiffened to rigid attention and said, “Sir, I came to report an error in the report file Motioncap delivered to my office and request a correct copy.”

Optimus tilted his helm slightly to one side, “An error? Explain.”

Ultra Magnus nodded and slid into an ‘at-ease’ pose, folding his servos neatly behind his back as he continued, “The report file I received indicated that **I** would be the guardian of the recently arrived femme, Starwish.”

Optimus withheld the simultaneous urge to sigh sadly or chuckle at his SiC’s discomfort, “That was not an error in the report copy, Magnus. Upon searching through the profiles of all mechs currently on base, I determined it most prudent to assign her to your care. She will be moving into your quarters once Ratchet releases her from the medbay.”

Ultra Magnus went stiff again and Optimus spotted his servos clenching quietly behind his tall back, “B-but, sir! I … not to question your judgement, but I have no prior experience in guardianship. Much less the guardianship of a young femling, surely Ironhide and Chromia would be better candidates.”

Optimus shook his helm, “No, Ultra Magnus, they would not. For one, they have both made it clear that they still have their servos full with Bumblebee. For another, even if they believed that they had enough time for Starwish, I doubt the wisdom in placing the femling under the care of the femme who shot her brother.”

The Prime watched patiently as Ultra Magnus wrestled with the undeniable information, struggling to come up with a solution that did not involve him. _Is he truly so convinced of his inadequacies?_ Ultra Magnus tried a different tactic, “Sir, would it not be seen as highly improper among the other mechs for a femme to reside in my quarters with me-”

Optimus already had an answer ready for that, “Is there not a spare berth room in your quarters?” Ultra Magnus nodded reluctantly, “Then she can stay there. Also, you are a highly respected officer and a former sparkmate, they would not see it as improper at all given the circumstances.” The look of pain that flashed over Ultra Magnus’s faceplates made Optimus want to snatch his words back, the death of his SiC’s sparkmate was still a sensitive subject, even after all the vorns that had passed.

Optimus felt a realization dawn on him, _perhaps that is why … of course. He fears to grow attached to a femme again, even in a Guardian-Ward relationship._ Ultra Magnus was still protesting, though his attempts were growing more and more half-sparked, “Sir, I must protest this assignment as ill-advised. I would not … I am not suited to be a guardian, let alone house a young traumatized femling in my quarters as a ward.”

Optimus calmly began to steer Ultra Magnus towards the door, “It is only until Elita-One and the other femmes return and a more suitable solution can be arranged. Besides, I am confident that you will adapt to the situation in the meantime.”

Before any more protests could be voiced by Ultra Magnus, Optimus had dismissed him and shut the door firmly in his faceplates. Wearily striding back to his desk, Optimus Prime sat down and mused to himself. _Ultra Magnus has yet to heal from the loss of his sparkmate … if such an act is possible given the circumstances of her offlining. Still, perhaps assigning Ultra Magnus as Starwish’s guardian will serve more then one purpose._ Thinking back on the reports he had received on Starwish’s temperament and behavior as well as his own brief meeting with the femling, Optimus nodded to himself, _yes … this might just work… as long as nothing goes irrevocably wrong of course._

Receiving a sudden panicked com from Red Alert asking for backup in stopping Ratchet from chasing Sunstreaker and Sideswipe around the base with a wrench and a datapad, yelling something about ‘teaching them proper youngling care before the debacle begins’, Optimus heaved a tired sigh, _such as that._ ::I am on my way, Red Alert.:: _Not that I will be of much help._


	2. Works, Peeps, and Lost and Found

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set sometime between chapters 14 and 15.
> 
> In which Prowl winds up on youngling duty, and things don't go too badly, actually. Until they do.

Prowl eyed his new assignment warily, his battle computer running through multiple strategies and contingency plans for what he was fairly sure would be the most grueling and sanity threatening four joors of his life. As his battle computer finished finalizing a plan that, should it be followed correctly, would have the least percentage of possible injury or glitching, a small voice said, “So … what are we doing?”

Quietly unsubspacing a Enforcer Model B66 Stun Pistol as an emergency contingency and placing it on his desk, Prowl flicked his doorwings upwards stiffly, “I have work to complete, you will sit over there and not move or speak until I say so.” His prisoners scowled as they did as he commanded and sat down. Cautiously lowering his optics to the report he was making, he kept his sensitive scanners trained on the two Cybertronians brooding irritably in front of his desk.

Less than a breem after his order for silence, a voice said, “I’m bored.”

Prowl looked up from his report coldly, “I am not here to entertain you. I am here to work and you are here because there were no other available caretakers.”

Zipline glared at Prowl’s optic visor, “I’m still bored.”

Prowl said firmly, “Then you and your twin will have to entertain yourselves quietly. Did you not bring any reading material?” The question was answered by a blank look from both younglings. Prowl resisted the urge to sigh, _of course not, their guardians are Sunstreaker and Sideswipe after all._

Fast Track stood up in his chair and began reaching for one of Prowl’s datapads, “What’cha working on?”

Prowl lightly rapped Fast Track’s servo, “The correct phrase is ‘what are you’ working on and the answer is official reports for Optimus Prime. Do not touch and do not stand on a chair, you could injure yourself.”

Fast Track whined and rubbed his servo as he plopped back onto the chair, “Jerk.” From behind his visor, Prowl blinked, what did rapid motion or spasmodic cable movement have to do with the current situation? Also, the tone in which the youngling had said it indicated that he intended it to be an insult. _Perhaps it is a way to avoid getting in trouble when they feel the urge to mimic their guardians and curse? An odd word to choose though._

Staying on the safe side, Prowl scolded, “You will refrain from foul language while in the confines of this office. Am I clear?”

Zipline scowled angrily and shouted, “But that wasn’t even a swear!”

Prowl felt his doorwings raise slightly in an instinctive show of dominance at the youngling’s continued defiance, “Do not shout in this office and the tone in which your sibling spoke indicated otherwise. You will refrain from such displays in the future or I will be forced to administer punishment.”

Both younglings glared at him stubbornly, but fell silent. Believing the twinlings’ brash attitudes subdued for the time being, Prowl resumed working on his report. He managed to have three breems of silence before a rapid ‘click, click, click’ noise disrupted his concentration. Looking up sharply, he saw that Zipline and Fast Track had begun to swing their legs back and forth from the chair, allowing their pedes to lightly collide with the desk in front of them to make the rapid, non-stop, clicking noise.

Prowl looked back down at his datapad, “Cease your actions immediately.”

There was a pause in the clicking before it resumed, “What’s ‘cease’ mean?”

Prowl mentally added ‘grammar’ to the growing list of things to insist that Sunstreaker and Sideswipe teach to their wards. Their constant use of contractions and lack of word knowledge was … irking. Using his stylus to make a footnote under one section of his report, Prowl answered the question, “It means ‘stop’.”

The pede-to-desk collisions stopped and a moment later Prowl felt a flash of irritation when Fast Track started rhythmically drumming his fingers on his leg, causing Zipline to lightly slap the metal bottom of his chair seat in time with it. Prowl pressed his lip components together thinly, trying to ignore the noise. He was beginning to wonder if Sideswipe had given the twinlings a list of all the things that irked Prowl in some kind of revenge for sentencing Sideswipe to the brig for a metacycle.

Smoothing his faceplates back into a neutral expression, Prowl looked up once again from his datapad and said, “Stop.”

Fast Track and Zipline stopped and stared at him darkly. Zipline growled, “Now what?”

Prowl leveled a cold stare at Zipline, who slowly shrunk into a submissive ball. He repeated the process with Fast Track before laying down his office rules as simply and clearly as he could, “I am working on important documents. While in this office you are allowed to entertain yourselves as long as you do not break, borrow, or remove any items from their proper place. Also, you are to remain silent unless it is to inform me of an emergency.”

Fast Track whimpered timidly, “What if we get hungry?”

Prowl motioned to his desk, “There are energon cubes in the bottom left drawer of my desk, should you become hungry you may take **one** cube. The cube will contain plenty of energon for you both. But unless a dire situation comes up, such as one of you being injured, you will not speak, click, drum, thump, shout, whisper or hammer the walls. If you need to speak to each other, use your twin bond, but I cannot be disturbed from my work. Understood?”

Zipline raised one servo slightly in question and asked, “Not so much as a whisper?”

Prowl nodded curtly, “Not so much as a whisper starting right now.” The twins hunched in their seats, glaring at the floor unhappily as Prowl cautiously resumed his duties as Third in Command and head Security Officer for all of the Autobot forces. The silence this time lasted for ten breems, but something about the silence was making Prowl’s doorwings want to twitch. Shoving the urge to one side, Prowl continued his work rigorously, doing his utmost to complete his work speedily in anticipation of the next youngling sparked interruption.

Finishing the sector security evaluations, Prowl moved on to analyzing and condensing the supplies and mech-power statistics of the Autobot western front. His logic center crunched down numbers and percentages almost effortlessly while his stylus made notes on which sector base should be granted a higher priority in their reinforcements requests and supply forms. “Peep.” Prowl’s mental number crunching hesitated for a split klik at the almost inaudible sound but then resumed as if nothing had happened.

“Peep.” One of Prowl’s doorwings flicked idly, sensors coming out of sleep mode to try and pick up the sound wave. When the sound didn’t repeat, the doorwing sensor slid back into sleep mode to conserve energon. “Peep.” Prowl’s stylus faltered slightly in its note making as a small part of his processor functions were redirected away from his work to analyze the sound. _A datapad download in all probability. Three beeps signifies a long distance transmission._

Prowl saved his report work and switched his datapad’s screen over to incoming data transmissions only to discover it inactive. _So what was?_ “Peep.” “Peep.” Prowl frowned from behind his visor and very slowly raised his helm to stare at the twin younglings sitting across from his desk. Both of them were sitting in their chairs looking perfectly, overly innocent, a look Prowl had come to identify instantly over vorns of dealing with Sunstreaker and Sideswipe.

Prowl fastened his most stern information-fetching stare on Zipline, “Are you the ones making that noise?” Zipline shook his helm vigorously, a smile working its way onto his small faceplates that indicated he was lying. Fast Track had an identical smile that was mostly hidden behind the servo he was using to try to smother his giggles.

Prowl’s doorwings flicked to a higher position on his back in a subconscious posture of dominance, “Then where is the noise coming from?”

Still the younglings shook their helms emphatically, Zipline now also covering his mouth with a servo as his frame started to shake from suppressed laughter. Realizing that he wasn’t going to get a confession in his normal ways, Prowl dipped his doorwings back into a normal position and pretended to resume his work.

It took exactly 5.690 kliks before the twinlings suddenly burst out laughing and shot off of their chairs like two mini plasma rounds. Prowl felt his processor threaten to stall at the illogical sight of the two younglings running in tight, crazed circles yelling ‘peep!’ repeatedly at the top of their vocalizers.

Shaking his helm to try to clear the buildup of pain caused by his logical center overworking itself attempting to deduce the reasoning behind their actions, Prowl stood up and barked sharply, his doorwings flaring up and outward commandingly, “Enough!”

Instantly, the two younglings froze in place, only daring to move their helms to stare at him with wide optics. Venting once to rein in his temper, Prowl said coldly, “Get in a line.”

Zipline and Fast Track shuffled into a sloppy, two youngling line in front of Prowl, pedes pointed inward and shoulders hunched to make them look small and harmless. Prowl did not fall for the ruse, “What was the purpose of you actions just now?”

Zipline’s optics shifted around, looking at everything in the room but Prowl as he mumbled something unintelligibly, “Yo ne sa w cou pep.” Prowl blinked once, his processor briefly trying to decipher the strange phrase before realizing that Zipline had communicated in what Starwish called, ‘twin-speak’ a special language that apparently only the twinlings could understand. It sounded like nonsense to him, but he managed to force the illogicality aside in favor of saying, “Speak Cyber-Standard youngling. What was the purpose of your endeavor? I gave instructions not to make a sound. Was I misunderstood?”

There was a pause as the younglings shifted nervously under his gaze, reluctant to say anything. Finally, Fast Track blurted, “You never said we couldn’t peep!”

Prowl’s processors stilled for a moment before bringing up the relevant memory file and discovering that he had, indeed, failed to include the sound ‘peep’ in his list of forbidden vocalizations. Resisting the urge to pinch his olfactory sensors in exasperation, Prowl said, “Understood. However, what was the purpose of using that vocalization?”

Zipline cocked his helm to one side, “Huh?”

Prowl carefully rephrased his question, “Why did you feel the urge to ‘peep’?”

Zipline shrugged, “Because we’re bored.”

Prowl’s doorwings twitched in irritation at the contraction, mentally correcting it with ‘we are’ before moving back to the subject at servo, “How does making a noise with no purpose alleviate boredom?”

Zipline shrugged again and folded his servos behind his back, “ ‘Cause it’s something to do.” Prowl again had to restrain the urge to correct the contractions, his processor calculating a 86.789% chance that doing so would merely give the youngling an excuse to divert the subject from their misbehavior.

Prowl was at a loss at what to do. It was apparent that unless the two younglings were given something to entertain them, they would continue to cause trouble and interrupt his work. However, the only prior experience he’d had in youngling care was when he had had to take care of his little brother, Bluestreak, long before the Great War. Bluestreak had never acted like this, he had always been content to do what Prowl said or amuse himself with something that didn’t bother his older brother’s training and school. Admittedly, Bluestreak had been a few vorns older than the two miscreants currently squirming under his gaze, but still.

Relenting to the fact that he needed advice on the matter, Prowl attempted to com Ratchet. His requesting ping was quickly repulsed with curses and the explanation that the medic ‘was fragging busy patching up the fragging idiot Hound’. With that resource cut off for the time being, Prowl quickly sorted through his other options. Ironhide was on patrol with Dark-Trail, Trailbreaker, and Motioncap. Starwish and Hardwire were currently in the training rooms under Chromia’s ‘loving’ tuition in hand-to-hand and long range combat, and Elita-1 was in a meeting with Optimus Prime.

_Perhaps Cliffjumper? He has volunteered to take care of them several times and has reported no real problems._ It was the only logical option left, so, Prowl activated his com again, ::Prowl to Cliffjumper.::

The response was immediate and clearly surprised, ::Commander Prowl?::

Prowl continued to watch the now **very** nervous and twitchy younglings as he coolly outlined his problem and asked if Cliffjumper had a solution. There was a long pause, the duration of which caused Prowl to suspect that he was either sharing the information with another or laughing about it. Prowl frowned slightly, a motion that caused the younglings to start sniffling from the stress.

Finally, Cliffjumper replied, ::Try giving them a harmless task under the guise of it being a game. Like … filing your datapads or something. That age needs activity or else they can’t handle their own processes.::

Prowl blinked from behind his visor, ::They will not be able to comprehend my filing system.::

Cliffjumper sounded amused, ::You can always refile everything later. Or you can have them deliver datapads to their owners, those two do know where most of the offices are. The point is to make them feel useful and entertained.::

Prowl considered this. As irking as it would be to have to find and refile the misplaced datapads, if it earned him relative peace to work… ::Understood, I will attempt the method you have advised.:: Prowl paused then remembered to add, ::Thank you.::

Cliffjumper’s laughter was still underlying his voice, ::No problem, sir.::

Ending the internal conversation, Prowl crouched down so that he was closer to the younglings’ optic level, his processor running through the best ways to implement Cliffjumper’s suggestion. After calculating what he would need to pull the suggestion off and settling on a plan with the highest success percentage, Prowl lowered his doorwings into a more friendly position and asked, “Would assisting me in my work help alleviate your … boredom?”

Zipline and Fast Track glanced first at Prowl, then at each other, obviously surprised that he wasn’t punishing them for the ‘peep’ incident moments before, “That depends. What’s alleviate?”

Prowl couldn’t stop the grammar correction from slipping out, “The proper way to phrase that question would be ‘what does alleviate mean’.” Both younglings flinched a little bit at his cold tone. Taking a deep vent, Prowl reminded himself that he was dealing with sixteen vorn old younglings and that their language processors would not be as in depth as an adult’s.

He softened his voice as much as he could and said, “Alleviate means ‘help to relieve’. Case in point; would helping me with my work relieve your boredom?”

Zipline and Fast Track exchanged glances again and Fast Track asked his twin, “Wha yo thi? Sho w’ he’? h’ se li a me’”

Zipline eyed Prowl thoughtfully before saying, “W’ sho he. h’ is s’ ba, ju ol.” Prowl, who was struggling to either decode the strange babble or push the conundrum it posed to one side for later analyzation, was saved from a processor crash when Zipline turned to Prowl and said, “Okay! How can we help?”

Prowl stood up and motioned for the younglings to climb onto a chair as he swiftly sorted through his datapads, mentally calculating the risks of what he was about to do as he held one of the completed ones out to Zipline and Fast Track, “Do you know where Ultra Magnus’s office is located?”

Zipline and Fast Track nodded and Prowl continued, “I need you to take this datapad to him as quickly as possible. Return with any datapads he has for me with the same speed. Can you do that?”

The twinlings faces lit up with excitement as Zipline took the datapad and clutched it to his chest plates, “Sir, yes, sir!” With a united battle cry, the two careened out of his office with the report in search of Ultra Magnus’s office.

Prowl was already opening a com channel to the other officers of Prime’s command staff, ::Prowl to the command staff, I will have two runners delivering reports for the next few joors. If you have multiple reports to turn in, do so one at a time and wait until they return to give them the next one.::

There was a surprised silence before Jazz piped up, ::Okay, Prowler. But … why?::

Prowl felt a tiny smirk tug at his lip components as he answered, ::Consider it an endurance test. You will understand when you meet the runners. Ultra Magnus, sir, they are currently en route to your office.::

Ultra Magnus sounded puzzled as he answered, ::Understood, Prowl. I will await their arrival.::

The com shut off and Prowl settled down behind his desk, only pausing to pull up security feeds of all the relevant hallways leading to the various command staff offices and workplaces so as to monitor the twinlings’ status as he unsubspaced a datapad and set to work on his report at long last.

* * *

Ultra Magnus looked up expectantly as his office door slid open, inwardly curious to see Prowl’s new ‘runners’. His optics saw nothing but the door sliding shut and he blinked in confusion until his audio receptors registered the cheerful high-pitched yell of, “Ultra Magnus, sir!” Leaning forward, he looked over his desk and stared down at the two younglings standing proudly in front of it in shock. _The younglings?_ Zipline waved a datapad excitedly, nearly smacking it on the metal of the desk as he chattered, “We have this datapad for you, sir! Prowl said we had to get it to you as fast as we could!”

Shaking off his dumbfounded stupor, Ultra Magnus stood up and came around the desk, crouching down to receive the datapad, “Yes … well … very well done. You delivered it quite speedily.”

Zipline puffed out his chest plates proudly as Fast Track jigged from one pede to the other and asked, “Prowl told us to ask you for any reports you had for him!”

Remembering Prowl’s mystery request, Ultra Magnus took a single datapad from his desk and handed it to them, “Here is a report for Prowl, please take it to him.”

Zipline and Fast Track saluted so enthusiastically, their servos bounced off of their helms with a clang, “Yes, sir!” With that, they were off again, racing away with the report firmly clasped in Fast Track’s arms.

Ultra Magnus shook his helm in wonderment as he stood up and returned to his chair. Sitting down, he hesitantly commed Prowl, ::Ultra Magnus to Prowl.::

Prowl’s response was immediate, ::Reporting, sir.::

Ultra Magnus stared thoughtfully at his door as he said, ::Your … runners arrived and I did as you requested, only giving them one report for the time being. However, I have to ask, what is the purpose of using the younglings as runners? Why only give them one datapad at a time?::

Prowl’s voice was as controlled as ever, but Ultra Magnus could have sworn he heard a tinge of satisfaction, ::I am currently in charge of monitoring them. They are currently energetic and would not remain quiet in my office. Therefor, I am giving their access energy a logical outlet by having them deliver reports. The longer it takes them to deliver all of the reports, the more energy they will have expended doing something useful.::

Ultra Magnus nodded to himself, ::I see. Good idea, Prowl.::

Prowl answered neutrally, ::Thank you, sir. However, the idea was not mine, it was Cliffjumper’s.::

Ultra Magnus made a mental note of that even as he pointed out, ::Be that as it may, you have implemented it most skillfully so far.::

Prowl’s voice had an almost irked edge to it, he did not like to receive praise when he felt it should go to someone else, ::Yes, sir. If you will excuse me, sir, the younglings have returned.::

Ultra Magnus smiled, ::Of course, I will let you get back to directing your runners. Ultra Magnus out.:: Sitting back in his chair slightly, Ultra Magnus pondered Prowl’s way of keeping the younglings ‘out of his wires’. It was interesting, as long as it continued to work. _We shall see how this turns out._

* * *

Almost a joor later, Prowl’s plan was functioning perfectly. The only problems that had arisen so far was when a mech had gotten into an argument with the younglings in the hall for crashing into him, something Prowl had sternly reprimanded the mech for, and when Jazz had tried to dodge ‘report duty’ by helping the twinlings deliver a datapad to Ratchet. Currently his two tiny runners were going on their longest delivery trip yet and Prowl was keeping a close optic on the monitors. He had sent them to Red Alert’s security room to remind him to give him the metacycle report and Prowl wanted to make sure that they didn’t get sidetracked or run into trouble.

_Once they have completed this delivery, they will probably need energon._ Reaching down, he pulled an energon cube out of the bottom left drawer and placed in on his desk in preparation and, after several moment’s debate, unsubspaced two small energon candies from his secret emergency stash and placed them on the desk as well.

Glancing back up at the camera’s, Prowl froze, the younglings were gone. With a tiny twitch of his doorwings, he began pulling up other cameras monitoring the area in which the younglings had been. However, none of the cameras provided Prowl with a view of the miniature twins. His logic and battle computers whirred to life, spitting out possibilities on the younglings location and plans on how to confirm their wellbeing. ::Prowl to Red Alert.::

Red Alert’s response was instantaneous and, for once, merely curious and not agitated, ::Red Alert here.::

Prowl pulled up more camera views, widening his search pattern, ::Have Zipline and Fast Track arrived in your office with a datapad?::

Red Alert’s voice took on a concerned edge, ::No … should they?::

By now, Prowl was becoming concerned, the only cameras he did not have access to on the base was the ones in the security room because of Red Alert’s paranoia. If Zipline and Fast Track were not in Red Alert’s office-come-sanctuary, then how was he unable to find them on the cameras? Prowl answered Red Alert absently, ::I cannot find them on the monitors, they should have arrived by now.::

Red Alert’s tone indicated that he was beginning to suffer from his paranoia glitch, ::We have to find them! Do you think they’ve been kidnapped? Could Decepticons have infiltrated?::

Prowl set his datapad aside, ::Negative. The probability of them being kidnapped and completely removed from the premises within five kliks is astronomical. They have simply moved into an area not covered by the cameras.::

Red Alert cut the com line and Prowl knew that the glitch had once again taken over the other mech’s higher logic functions, tainting everything with suspicious readings and possible traps. The mech would be of no help in finding the missing twinlings.

With a vaguely disgruntled noise, Prowl considered his options. He needed to find Zipline and Fast Track and ensure they were safe, so either he could leave his work and search the base himself, or he could enlist help of some kind. With a faint sigh, Prowl opened the private frequency of the one mech he was sure could find them, ::Prowl to Jazz.::

* * *

Jazz trotted down the hallway, scanners fully prepped and ready to spot anything even remotely shaped like a youngling. He couldn’t suppress a large grin from showing on his faceplates as he searched every nook and corner of the area in which Zipline and Fast Track had last been seen.

He wasn’t incredibly worried about the twins, Bumblebee had pulled disappearing acts more then a few times when he was the twinlings’ age, usually by climbing into a ventilation shaft and falling asleep in a random location. The two had most likely just done the same thing and Prowl was worrying unnecessarily.

However, Prowl was worried enough to volunteer to do the rest of Jazz’s report work should the First Lieutenant aid in discovering Zip and Track’s whereabouts, so who was he to complain? Looking for younglings was much more enjoyable than sitting at a desk writing boring old reports.

His optics spotted something, breaking him out of his contemplation, and he crouched down to inspect his find. The grate that covered the floor level ventilation shaft was loose. The clamps holding it over the opening had been pried loose and then sloppily placed back on in a manner that clearly suggested that the bot doing it had been inside the shaft. _Called it._

Jazz pulled up a schematic of the ventilation system in the base and frowned underneath his visor when he saw just how many other openings there were nearby. _The little slaggers could exit the shaft through any of these before I have time to look._ Standing up, Jazz began trotting to the nearest possible youngling exit, not at all ashamed as he opened a Special Ops only channel, ::Jazz ta Buffer, Bulletpoint, an’ Whitestrike, I got a job for yah.::

Buffer was the one who verbally responded, but Jazz could sense that the other two were listening in, ::Here. What’s the sit-rep?::

Jazz looked up at the ceiling grate, scanning it carefully for signs of the younglings or whether they had passed by, ::Zip and Track have dropped off tha grid and entered the vent shafts. I can’t cover all of the exits, so Ah want yah all to keep an optic out for ‘em. Buff, take base sectors five through seven. Bullet, yah check one through four. Whitestrike, keep doing yah perimeter patrol, but pay attention to the shafts leading ta tha rest of tha city. I don’ want those two getting out of tha base. Clear?::

There was a chorus of affirmatives as the Special Operations mechs immediately set about their appointed tasks. Jazz had moved on to his third grate by this time, with no luck in spotting the younglings. With a tiny quirk of his lips, Jazz sidestepped a passing mech, ignoring the look he got as he jumped up and grabbed the grate, lifting himself up to physically peer inside the shaft. Seeing nothing of importance, Jazz dropped back to the ground silently. _Wonder why those two would drop the mission Prowl gave them and enter the shaft anyway? They seemed thrilled as scraplets at a metal convention to run around giving bots datapads._

* * *

Fast Track wiggled down the ventilation shaft after his brother, trusting his twin to lead him in the right direction. Zipline paused at an intersection, helm cocking to one side in a listening pose. Fast Track mirrored the motion, listening intently for the sound of their target. A rasping, clattering noise sounded to their left and the two took off again hastily. Fast Track was agitated and angry, the stupid mini-robot dog had **eaten** the datapad Prowl had given them to deliver! Eaten it! At first it had been cool to see a little robot puppy come wiggling out of the ventilation shaft, wagging its tiny metal tail, but when Zipline had dropped the datapad out of surprise, the puppy had run over and swallowed it whole before disappearing back down the shaft.

Zipline had led the pursuit immediately, only pausing to tell Fast Track to close the grate again, just like the spies did in the movies. Fast Track had done his best and was now following his brother in a desperate attempt to catch the datapad devouring metal mutt.

Fast Track whined softly at the thought of what kind of trouble they’d get into if they couldn’t recover the datapad, but was shushed by his brother over their bond, _“Quiet, Track! We can’t let the puppy know that we’re following it! We need to be quiet like ninjas. Blend in to our surroundings.”_

Fast Track glanced around at the bland silver walls of the ventilation shaft then down at his own colorful paint job that Sunstreaker had taken to obsessively shining for him, _“I … think that might be a little hard to do, Zipline. I’m bright red and you’re bright green.”_

Zipline sent the equivalent of a dismissive wave over their bond, _“Mind set, Fast Track, mind set. Remember what Rodney always said? ‘If you believe firmly enough that you can achieve something, then nothing is really impossible.’ So, if we believe that we blend in with our surroundings, we can.”_

Somehow, Fast Track got the vague impression that Zipline’s logic was faulty somewhere in that declaration. But, his twin’s confidence was telling and Fast Track decided to trust Zipline’s opinion on the matter. So, the pursuit of the metal puppy continued, with Fast Track trying to simultaneously keep up, be quiet, and blend in to his silver surroundings so as to not be seen.

As they squirmed around a corner, Zipline clicked in surprise and paused, looking up in surprise. Fast Track followed his gaze and clicked as well, the vent had grown in size considerably! Propping himself up, Zipline looked over his shoulder and flashed a smile at his twin, blue optics lighting the darkness eerily, _“Come on! We can move faster if we crawl!”_

Getting on their servos and knees, the two began crawling rapidly down the larger ventilation shaft. Had they been in their third or final frame, they would have still had to wiggle along on their stomach plating, but as it was, they could almost crouch in the space now afforded them. Zipline’s smug confidence oozed over to Fast Track, making him grin along with his twin, they would surely catch that puppy now! Once they caught it, they would get their datapad back and deliver it to Red Alert like they were told to. Prowl wouldn’t know any better and he might even give them an energon candy!

Rounding another corner and climbing up a slippery metal slope, Fast Track heard Zipline give a triumphant hiss, _“It left out of that grate! Come on!”_

Zipline scurried ahead, now heedless of the noise he was making as he rushed to the hole in the floor where the grate had been and peered down it. Fast Track crawled next to him and looked down. Instantly, he felt the fluid running in his lines freeze and his spark pick up a crazy rhythm as he felt his optics become riveted on the floor that seemed very, very, **very** far away. His tanks churned, threatening to eject what was left of his breakfast because of the fear squeezing his tanks mercilessly.

Fast Track feared heights with a passion. He had ever since he could remember. Zipline had no problem with heights, he even enjoyed them to a certain extent, climbing trees, fences, anything that offered him a good view of the world. Fast Track only climbed as an absolute necessity, like getting away from the bully next door or helping Zipline retrieve his kite when it got stuck. But even the oak tree back home did not put him as high up as he was now. This height caused his normal discomfort and reluctance to turn into paralyzing terror.

Zipline whined and shivered next to him, almost overwhelmed by the feeling of Fast Track’s terror of how high up he was. Zipline tried to soothe his brother instinctively, coaxing and whispering and pointing to the object of their pursuit in hopes of goading Fast Track into jumping down. It didn’t look too high to him after all. Fast Track didn’t respond verbally, he couldn’t. He couldn’t even form coherent words over their bond. All he could do was send his impression of wordless terror to his twin and the firm, if unspoken, declaration that he was Not. Moving.

Zipline shrugged off Fast Track’s fear with a snort and a whisper of, “Scaredy cyber-cat. I’m going to get that datapad back.” Fast Track shakily managed to lift his optics away from the terrifying distance between himself and the floor to stare pleadingly at Zipline. Zipline couldn’t think of going down there, he’d be killed for sure! Even if he somehow survived the fall, which Fast Track doubted he would, the robot puppy would probably bite his head off!

Zipline snorted at Fast Track’s expression, “I’ll be fine. **I’m** not afraid.” Inching forward, Zipline started to lower himself out of the open vent, reaching out as far as he could to try to grab the dangling grate and use it as a partial makeshift ladder.Fast Track watched mutely as his brother strained to reach the grate, wiggling out even further over the opening when his arm refused to stretch far enough.

Soon, he was dangling halfway out of the opening, one servo grasping the edge of the square hole to keep his balance as the fingers of his other servo wiggled wildly as if to call the stubbornly far away grate to him. Of course, it was at that moment the robot puppy looked up, spotted Zipline, and began to bark as loudly as it could.

The noise shocked Zipline into automatically kicking his legs forwards, propelling him over the edge and into open air. His fingers slid into the bars of the grate and hooked there instinctively. His other servo flailed out and grabbed at the grate as he slammed against it and jerked to a stop in mid-air.

Fast Track felt his spark leap into his throat tubing as he watched what he was sure was going to be his brother’s death. His fear for himself and his brother, as well as the fact that his lowering energy levels reduced his youthful need to prove himself to adults, caused him to give the universal call for assistance.

He screamed. Loudly. Zipline immediately joining in as the short fall and Fast Track’s terror finally overrode his own confidence and spawned a fear of heights and barking robot puppies in his spark.

* * *

Jazz was just beginning to wonder if the twinlings had fallen asleep somewhere in the ventilation shaft and if he was going to have to crawl in after them when he heard screaming. He had heard lots of screaming in his time, from his days as an entertainer in Helix to the battlefields of the war currently waging all around. He knew the meanings carried wordlessly in screams and knew that this was no scream of mere surprise or even pleasure. The twins were screaming in pure terror.

His spark leapt in its chamber wildly as his scanners and battle computer went into overdrive at the realization and his pre-programmed parental subroutines began clamoring to find the younglings right fragging now. The sound came from somewhere in the ventilation system, the tunnels echoing and bouncing the sound until it was impossible to determine where the twinlings were.

His comlink and audios were assaulted by the voices of startled and concerned mechs as the sound carried a ridiculous distance in the base. Setting everyone who heard it into a panicked state of alertness as their parental subroutines and battle computers kicked into overdrive as well.

Jazz activated his specialty scanners, the ones he normally only used when on a sabotage mission deep behind enemy lines. The scanners analyzed the terrified screaming, determining which direction it was coming from the most strongly as well as picking up another faint sound wave that happened with concussive regularity. Jazz set off at a dead run, mechs falling in behind him as they all tried to somehow arrive at the scene of the disaster no later then ten breems ago.

Skidding around a corner, Jazz’s scanners began picking up energon traces in the vents above, he had the trail of the twinlings. Following it as fast as his pedes could carry him and gathering an ever larger following of concerned, weapon-wielding mechs, Jazz barreled into the barracks section of the base. Optics flicking back and forth, following a trail only his visor could see, the sound of terrified screams grew louder, closer, as did the other sound. This sound wasn't drawn out and continuous like the screams, it was a quick rapid succession of short reports, almost like a blaster going off.

Jazz’s tank churned at the sudden thought that someone might be **shooting** at the twins and his favorite acid pellet gun, a gift from Prowl, dropped out of his subspace immediately. ::Jazz to any Spec Ops bot on base, rendezvous on my location **now**!:: The pellet gun replaced his left servo as the energon trail came to an end and the unique presence of one spark signature in two frames came up on his visor scanner. They were in one of the barrack rooms.

Slamming his right servo into the interface of the door lock and ignoring the shrill wail of the base wide alarm Red Alert had just set off, Jazz shattered the lock’s coding with brutal mental efficiency, forcing the door open with a speed even he hadn’t been aware he possessed when it came to hacking.

The door started to slide open and Jazz was diving through it before it had a chance to fully open, his systems in full combat mode as he prepared to demolish whatever it was that was shooting at the twins. However, almost as soon as he entered the room, Jazz slid to a stunned stop, causing several of the following mechs to crash into each other in the doorway so as not to knock him flat with their larger frames.

He had been more than half expecting to see a snarling Decepticon standing there with his blaster primed to snuff tiny sparks and a snarl on his faceplates as he tried to shoot the younglings who had no doubt ruined his infiltration attempt. Instead … he saw a small Search and Find drone modeled in the shape of a petro-puppy looking up at something on the ceiling and using the recording of a blaster shot to bark.

His optics trailed up to the ceiling and he nearly went into spark-shock at the sight of Zipline dangling in mid-air, fingers clinging to the swinging vent grate as his little legs kicked wildly. It wasn’t all that far to the floor, if Zipline let go and fell, the most he would get for it would be scuffs and maybe a dent in his after-plating. However, the expression on the youngling’s faceplates showed that Zipline believed that he was hanging over a fatal precipice.

Jazz realized all of this within the space of two kliks and in another two was underneath Zipline, calling up to him, “Zip! Track! Ah’m here! It’s okay!”

Zipline wailed inconsolably, optics squeezed tightly shut as the stupid Search and Find drone continued to ‘blaster-bark’. From within the ventilation shaft, Fast Track wailed even more loudly than his twin. More mechs shuffled into the room and one angrily snatched up the S.A.F drone, clamping a servo firmly on over its muzzle and flipping it over to find and press its off switch.

The drone powered down as Buffer shoved his way through the crowd of confused mechs and snatched Zipline away from the grate with agile servos. Silently passing the crying youngling to a mildly surprised Jazz, Buffer stood on the tip of his pedes and snatched Fast Track from out of the ventilation shaft. The other mechs crowded around, shouting questions and demanding to know if Zipline and Fast Track were okay. The noise only served to frighten them more and Buffer, in a rare show of temper, roared over the inner comlink, ::Everybot who isn’t their guardians, the owner of this room, or Special Ops, shut up and **get out**!::

Silence fell instantly and with obvious reluctance, mechs began to shuffle away. Soon the only adult bot left other than Jazz and Buffer was a very sheepish looking Hound. Jazz growled his engine softly, ::Prowl is gonna hear all about this Hound. Yah know thah pets aren’t allowed.::

Hound shifted nervously from pede to pede, ::Technically, drones are allowed and this is a drone so I thought…:: His voice trailed off when he saw the heated glares he was getting from the two Spec Ops bots as they tried to soothe the shaking younglings.

Jazz looked down at the youngling curled in his arms and sighed, this was getting them nowhere, Zipline and Fast Track showed no signs of calming down even if they were no longer screaming their helms off. The base alarm outside wasn’t helping matters. ::Jazz ta Red Alert, ya can turn off the alarm now. We got the situation under control.::

After arguing with Red Alert for two breems, Jazz huffed in irritation and glanced at Buffer, silently signaling for him to take over the calming of their ‘favorite’ security officer while he called in backup on the youngling front, ::Jazz ta Starwish.::

Starwish answered immediately, ::Jazz? What’s going on? Why is the base alarm going off? Did I hear screaming earlier? Are the twinlings okay? What-?::

Jazz smoothly interjected into her rapid-fire speech, ::Easy, Starwish. Just a false alarm is all. But Zipline and Fast Track got themselves scared out of their processors by Hound’s glitched pet drone an’ they won’t stop crying. Ah don’t suppose you could come to these coordinates and calm ‘em down?::

There was a pause and Jazz wondered if she was getting permission from Chromia to leave the sparring lesson. She sounded very serious as she finally replied, ::I’m on my way.::

About three breems later, Starwish and Hardwire hurried into the room, the latter plopping the twins on Hound’s berth with Starwish gently soothed them with a strange sound pattern she called _humming_. It was a pretty sound really, Jazz would have enjoyed listening to it if it hadn’t been for the current situation.

Once the twins were no longer crying, Starwish asked gently, “What were you two doing up there anyway? You could have gotten hurt. Besides, I thought you were supposed to be with Prowl.”

Zipline sniffed a little, his cooling fans hiccuping as they slowly settled from their recent overworking, “The datapad…”

Starwish glanced in confusion at Jazz, who shrugged helplessly and glanced at Prowl, who had arrived almost at the same time Starwish did. Prowl’s doorwings were rigid as he explained, “I was giving the younglings the opportunity to exercise by having them deliver datapads to the other officers. I was monitoring them on the cameras when they abruptly disappeared into the ventilation system.”

Starwish turned back to the twinlings, “Why were you in the vent shafts, twinlings? Did you get lost?” Jazz inwardly wondered how anyone could ‘get lost’ enough to go from the hallways to the ventilation shaft.

Zipline shook his helm, “No! We were chasing that stupid puppy!”

Fast Track glared at the deactivated drone in Hound’s servos, “I-it ate the datapad Prowl gave us! We had to g-get it back! B-but then the floor was so far away… I told Zip not to try and climb down but he wouldn’t listen! Then that puppy started to bark and Zipline almost fell and … and…” His voice trailed off as Starwish shushed him gently.

Hardwire glared silently at Hound who, after a bit of fumbling, opened the hatch on the drone’s back and peered in side, “Well, fr- friction. There is a datapad in here.” He carefully pulled out the item in question, looking rather shamefaced at the trouble his pet had caused.

Jazz resisted the urge to slap his faceplates. All that trouble and panic because of a glitched Search and Find drone. It was no wonder the Decepticons thought they were inefficient. Sometimes Jazz almost found himself agreeing with them. Hardwire shook his helm and picked up the twins, “If you will excuse us, these two need to refuel.”

Starwish trailed after her brother, only pausing to shoot Prowl a deadly look that was even more terrifying than Ratchet’s before disappearing out the door. Prowl’s doorwings twitched in surprise at the look and Jazz’s private com frequency pinged. Accessing the ping, Prowl’s voice queried softly in his helm, ::Why was she glaring at me?::

Jazz felt a chuckle well up in his throat as he commented dryly, ::Let’s just say yah won’t have to worry about being stuck on youngling duty again, Prowler.::

It didn’t take long for the two younglings to refuel and then drop off into recharge. When they woke up, it was if the entire situation had never happened. But the adults did not forget so easily. They had learned a valuable lesson about the care of mischievous, over-adventurous younglings.

And Jazz was correct, by a mysterious coincidence, Prowl’s name never again came up on the roster for ‘youngling duty’.


	3. Driver's Ed: Cybertronian Style

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set between chapter’s 14 and 15.
> 
> In which Starwish and Hardwire finally learn how to drive as Cybertronians.

Flareup sputtered, her vents desperately trying to unclog and expel the energon she had just accidentally sent down them. Finally ejecting the liquid obstruction with a helpful slap from an equally surprised Moonracer, Flareup stared incredulously at the shy femling sitting across from them, “You’re joking, right?”

Starwish slid a little bit downward in her seat, making herself look even smaller as she averted her optics in shame. Flareup blinked uncomprehendingly for several kliks, “You **aren’t** joking, are you?” The answer was a tiny shake of the helm and further shrinking in the seat.

Flareup sat back, ignoring the stares she was now getting from the other customers in the Pub, “You’ve really never raced in your alt mode?”

Starwish mumbled something so low it was almost unintelligible, but Flareup thought it sounded like she’d said, “I like going slow.”

Moonracer leaned forward, “Why would you not race? You can get places faster, its fun, and you can catch the optics of whatever mech you want.”

Starwish hesitated then said softly, “My guardians had strict rules about all of that. They told me I wasn’t old enough… It’s was family rule of theirs that we couldn’t use our alt modes … for that sort of thing … until we were in our final frames.”

Flareup snorted incredulously, “Well that’s a stupid rule. Why would you even do that?”

Starwish shrugged slightly, “I don’t know. Make sure I didn’t go out with any mechs until then? I preferred walking over driving anyway, so racing didn’t even seem worth fighting over.”

Flareup revved her engine rebelliously, “How can you say that?”

Starwish blinked her optics, stubbornly refusing to look at anything other than the tabletop as she said, “Well … I mean … all of the places I wanted to go were within walking distance. The datapad store, the library, the school, the _arcade_ \- sorry, neighborhood hangout … It was all right there. I figured it wasn’t worth fighting over if I could just walk where I wanted to go…”

Flareup shook her helm in bewilderment, when she had entered her third frame, the first thing she’d done was transform into her alt mode to try out her new wheels at top speed. She’d thought the desire to transform and drive was hardwired into everyone’s processor and here was a femme who’d never tried to race?

Flareup stood up and hurried around the table to grab Starwish’s wrist, “Well we need to change that right now. If your going to be an Autobot femme you need to learn how to leave mechs in the scrapyard with your speed.”

Moonracer leapt to her pedes eagerly, “Yeah! Every femme needs to know how race!”

Starwish stuttered as Flareup dragged her to her pedes and began leading her out of the Pub, “B-b-but-”

Moonracer grabbed her other wrist and helped Flareup pull her along, “Don’t worry, we’ll show you all the tricks! Oh! We should call Chromia! She has some of the best racing tricks in the database!”

Flareup nodded enthusiastically as she continued to pull a squeaking Starwish along with her, “Oh, definitely. She’s a master at cross-country races.”

Moonracer pumped the servo that wasn’t busy dragging Starwish in the air, “Femmes’ cycle out! I call a femmes’ cycle out!” Flareup grinned in agreement to Moonracer’s idea, _Rust in envy mechs. We’re gonna rock the Algol racetrack!_

It didn’t take long to get Chromia on board with the idea and once they had Chromia, it was only a matter of time before they had managed to convince Prowl to give them a pass to take Starwish out of the official Algol base and into Algol city itself. Of course, convincing Ratchet was far more difficult, but in the end, he saw reason and allowed them to take Starwish to the racing track on the condition that if any of them came back with so much as a dent, he had full rights to weld them to their berths for an orn.

Soon, they were all marching out of the entrance to the base and into Algol City itself. Starwish ground to a stop after taking a few steps, her optics wide as a cyber-deer’s and her mouth hanging open slightly in awe. Chromia smiled at her reaction, “Nice isn’t it? Now come on, we need to get to the racetrack.” Chromia smoothly transformed into her sleek, four wheeled alt mode and revved her engine. Flareup and Moonracer immediately followed suit.

Starwish stared at them for several kliks before whispering pleadingly, “Can’t we just … walk there?”

Chromia snorted, “The race track is halfway across the city. Walking would take joors and we don’t have that much free time to waste. Come on, femling! Show us your alt mode!”

* * *

Starwish felt dread wiggle around in her tanks as Chromia and the other two femmes encouraged her to transform. _Do I even have an alternate mode?_ A small notice popped up on her internal HUD, Alternate Mode: Activate for the first time? Y/N. Hesitantly, Starwish mentally selected ‘yes’ and barely managed a squeak of surprise as her body dropped and folded into an entirely different shape. Less than a few kliks later, Starwish’s two newfound wheels were touching the hard metal road, easily supporting her motorcycle-esque form as she struggled to maintain her equilibrium.

Her engine revved, jolting her forward a few inches as she worked to hastily figure the controls to her new form. Flareup gave a low rev of appreciation, “Nice alt mode, Starwish! Definitely fits you.”

Starwish finally managed to activate a ‘kick-stand’ of sorts and settle into a stable unmoving position, “Uh, thanks?”

Chromia revved her engine, “You’re welcome, now let’s go!” _Please don’t crash, please don’t crash, please don’t crash, I really don’t want to crash._ Internally bracing for a painful disaster, Starwish propelled herself forward with a few jerky revs of her engine.

The other femmes, who had pulled away smoothly onto the road, now slowed down again and called, “Hey, are you okay? Is your engine stalling?”

Starwish mentally pulled on her ‘handle throttle’, experimentally imagining that she was manipulating the simulator bike at the downtown arcade. With an enthusiastic roar, her engine responded and sent her shooting forward, briefly rocking her onto her back wheel before settling onto the front one with a solid thump. She shot past the other femmes with a shout of terrified surprise, barely squeezing through the gap between Chromia and Flareup and onto the main road in a blur of speed.

Chromia’s voice shouted over the com as the other femmes hastily pulled onto the main road behind her, ::Hey! Slow down, femling, we aren’t on the race track yet! We have speed limits on the road!::

Starwish weaved unsteadily back and forth across the road, steadily gaining more speed that she did **not** want as she tried alternately to pick a lane and stay in it and to not crash into the other ‘drivers’ on the road, ::Trying! Trying! **Help**!::

The other vehicles on the road were beginning to swerve away from her crazy zig-zagging path, yelling remarks and expletives as they did so. Starwish wailed as she narrowly managed to avoid going off of the road altogether, _this is why I hated Nitro Bike! Hate, hate, hate it!_

Chromia sounded confused and concerned, ::Ease up on the throttle, Starwish! Slag, it’s like you’ve never driven before.::

Starwish screamed both out loud and over the com to the other femmes, ::I **haven’t**! That’s what, whoa! I’ve been trying to tell you all this, ah! Time!::

There was a stunned silence that Starwish spent frantically figuring out how to decrease her speed. With a jerk, she found her internal brake, bucked onto her front wheel and transformed instinctively to try and halt her fall. With a crash, she overbalanced and fell hard onto her rear in the middle of the road, vents heaving and cooling fans whirring as she tried to calm down.

Other vehicles on the road had stopped and transformed as several mechs crowded around, some demanding to know if she was okay, others yelling at her for being a ‘slagging menace on the road’. Starwish shakily curled up, trying not to cry at the stress of so much noise and the disastrous first attempt at her vehicle mode.

Her rescue came in the form of Chromia and Flareup barreling into the crowd, heavy duty blasters whirring dangerously as they yelled threats at the mechs, ordering them to be about their business or be turned into scrap metal. Moonracer crouched next to Starwish, holding her close and purring apologies softly as she used her own frame to partially shield the younger femme from the glares she was getting.

Gently coaxing her off of the road and to a nearby bench, the three femmes worked on calming Starwish down. Only once Starwish had stopped shaking and sniffling did Chromia crouch in front of her and ask softly, “You’ve really never driven before, femling?”

Starwish shook her helm, her vents making a strange noise that sounded a lot like a hiccup as they reset from their strenuous activity, “N-no. I wasn’t allowed too … my g-guardians said I couldn’t until I was a-an adult.”

Chromia scowled briefly before smoothing the expression over, “Why didn’t you just say so earlier?”

Starwish blurted aggressively, “I tried! B-but Flareup and Moonracer wouldn’t listen!”

The other two had the decency to look abashed at her statement. Flareup huffed apologetically, “Sorry, Starwish. I should have checked that you could actually drive before demanding you come race with us. But I just assumed … I mean, every bot I know starts driving when they’re in their second frame. Sorry.”

Starwish sighed, “Can we just go home now?” Internally, she begged for the answer to be yes, she really just wanted to hide in the Observatory with one of the music sticks Jazz had lent her and run through her dance exercises.

Chromia shattered those hopes immediately, “Sorry, femling, but you need to learn how to handle your alt mode. It could save your spark.” Starwish’s shoulders slumped dejectedly and Chromia patted her on the helm sympathetically, “Don’t worry, we’ll show you how it’s done. Nice and slow at first, then work our way up.”

Knowing that it was futile to protest, Starwish stood up, “Okay…”

Chromia took her by the servo and led her down something that looked like a sidewalk, “Hey, cheer up, driving is fun once you get used to it.” Chromia paused before suddenly asking, “Has Hardwire done much driving?”

_Plenty, but that was on Earth as a human._ Starwish shook her helm, “No … not really. I mean,” _how to explain?_ “He used to … pilot a transport for his employer, but…”

Flareup groaned and slapped her faceplate in a motion of disbelief, “Did **everyone** in your home town have something against their alt modes?”

Moonracer lightly shoved Flareup, “Be nice. Transport mechs rarely use their alt modes unless they have the cycle off, you know that. Besides, it’s rude to make assumptions about someone else’s home town.”

Flareup shrugged, “Fine,” turning to Starwish she asked, “what was your town like?” _Uh … boring? Organic? Non-cybertronian? Normal? Human? Home? Not that I can say any of that. I really hate whenever I have to lie about this stuff._

Starwish averted her optics and twitched nervously, “Just like any other town it’s size, I suppose. Boring, normal … average. Everyone had a home, a job, a family unit. Most of the bots there had grown up knowing everyone else just like their creators did before them. It was plain, it was … it was home.”

At saying those last three words out loud, Starwish felt her throat tubing squeeze. Home. That town had been home. It had been a picture perfect example of small town America. It had had a school, a decent sized library, a grocery store, a park with a very large pond that everyone jokingly called a lake in which the kids liked to swim in during the summer and skate on in the winter. It had had its weirdoes, but it also its decent citizens that could always make you smile.

The only thing that had really made it special was the large mountain that tourists would come in the summer to hike on and, in the winter, ski down. The town had a small Search and Rescue unit because of the tendency ‘city-people’ seemed to have when it came to getting utterly lost in the mountain’s large forested areas. The pride and joy of the entire town had been the single Search and Rescue helicopter that everyone had donated money to buy.

Memories of her home town flooded her mind and she swallowed thickly. She had been planning for years to move away once she was old enough, to find a new place in which to make her own way. But now that she was literally as far away from her old town as she could possibly get, she just wanted to go back. To go home with her family.

A gentle arm wrapped around her shoulders, “Hey, are you okay?” Starwish shook herself out of her musings and looked up at the femme who had thrown her arm around Starwish’s shoulders. It was Moonracer. The light blue-green femme had a look of understanding in her optics that made Starwish want to laugh bitterly.

Instead of laughing, she just smiled weakly, “Yeah, just … remembering.”

There was a small metal ‘clink’ noise that made Starwish glance up just in time to see Chromia finish cuffing Flareup on the helm, a scowl on her faceplates. Starwish blinked at the motion, wondering why exactly Chromia had cuffed her protege this time. It wasn’t a new occurrence, Chromia cuffed Flareup during training whenever the younger femme went and did something reckless and stupid, which was often.

Flareup rubbed the cuffed area and sent her mentor a dry look, which was returned with equal force and much more experience. Starwish and Moonracer exchanged knowing glances, what happened between mentor and apprentice, stayed between them, the other two femmes knew better than to comment or intervene.

When they finally arrived at the race track, Starwish felt her optics widen in surprise at the sight of an unmistakable pink paint job and its elegant owner waiting for them patiently. Looking up at the sound of their approach, Elita-1 smiled, “Good cycle femmes, are you ready for some training?”

While the others gave casual greetings, Starwish stammered, “Elita-1! I mean, Commander! Why-why are you here?”

Elita-1 calmly motioned the femmes through the gate to the race track, “Chromia commed me and informed me about your … inexperience handling your alternate mode. I thought that you might prefer having a teacher on servo who was not quite as obsessed with speed and acrobatic maneuvers as Chromia or her proteges, so I came down to see if I could help. If that is acceptable for you?”

Starwish nodded emphatically, “Yes, Ma’am! Thank you for coming all the way down here to teach me, Ma’am.”

Elita-1 gave a gentle laugh, “It is no trouble and please, call me Elita-1 or Elita. My femmes only call me Commander or Ma’am when they are in trouble.”

Starwish ducked her helm as they walked down the towering orange hallway leading to the race track, “Yes, Ma- I mean, Elita. Thank you,” they emerged from the hallway and Starwish felt her words evaporate in shock, “oh. My.”

**_This_** _is a race track? This looks more like, like…_ her optics flickered across the dizzying array of straight sections, loop-de-loops, rails just wide enough for a motorcycle to skim on top of, and a host of other obstacles and trick areas for vehicles. _Like a mutated amusement park!_ The area had to be at least five Earth miles wide and probably seven miles long. The area was open to the sky and Starwish’s wandering optics were immediately drawn to the enormous center point of the entire thing, a large spire with multiple roads of varying sizes curling up around it like ivy vines on some giant metal tree that had been relieved of all of its branches.

Starwish opened and closed her mouth several times, trying to formulate words that would cover her shock and awe at the sight. Finally, she settled for, “ **This** is a race track?”

Chromia and Flareup burst out laughing while Moonracer giggled uncontrollably and Elita-1 smiled in reserved amusement. The leader of the Femme Contingent took it upon herself to explain as she guided Starwish further inside the massive arena-like area, “Of a sort. Before the war, Algol was host to some of the most specialized trick racing tournaments on all of Cybertron. Thus, they had a specialized arena built just for the sport. These cycles, however, it is used as an obstacle course to hone our vehicular skills for when the time comes to use them on the battlefield.”

Starwish must have still looked dumbfounded, because Flareup began grinning broadly enough to put a Cheshire Cat to shame, “Don’t worry, femling. The loop-de-loops don’t come until after you’ve mastered driving in a straight line.”

Starwish shot Flareup a flat look, “Not very comforting, Flareup. Not very comforting. At. All.”

Elita-1 lightly touched Starwish’s shoulder with a servo, “Do not worry, we will take this at the pace of your choice. No one will ask you to do something that you do not feel safe doing. Now, let us start the lesson, shall we?” Starwish nodded reluctantly and Elita-1 motioned to the large metal courtyard they were standing in to indicate their training ground,“Then we begin. Transform please.”

Starwish vented deeply and closed her optics for more focus, _right, transform._ Instead of a query on her HUD like previously, nothing happened. Starwish furrowed her optics ridges, concentrating, _come on, transform!_ Her mental command was heeded and with disconcerting swiftness, her body had folded, shifted, and rearranged itself into a Cybertronian motorcycle.

Elita-1 inspected her frame critically as Starwish activated her kick-stand and tilted onto her side in a stable yet motionless position. Elita-1 nodded appreciatively, “A Praxian X-16 Light-Cycle, rather common on the western hemisphere of Cybertron, but a fast, reliable model. Used mostly for speed in narrow, hard to maneuver areas. A unique choice for your first Alternate Mode.”

Starwish would have blinked if she’d had optics, as it was, she somehow managed to flash the small lights perched over her rear wheel twice to convey the expression, “Um, thank you?” _I didn’t even know I had an alternate mode until today. How did I get a ‘unique’ one?_

Elita-1 crouched down next to Starwish and said, “Now, since I believe your Alternate Mode control subroutines are not completely active at the moment, we will start with a slow straight line. Disengage your stasis stand and lean your weight to the right until you are balanced on your wheels.” Starwish hesitantly disengaged her kickstand and tilted to one side, squeaking as she started to overbalance and began wobbling back and forth from left to right.

Elita-1 reached out a servo and gently steadied Starwish, “Calm down. You do not have to be uneasy about your alternate mode,” she paused, helm cocking to one side, “perhaps it would help if you treat this like the dance exercises I have seen you perform. Your wheels are like your pedes, place both of them in a straight line and focus your weight in the middle point between them.”

Slowly, Starwish corrected her position and managed to balance on her own. Elita-1 smiled encouragingly, “Very good. Now, gently adjust your throttle control, it is just like tilting your servo back a few degrees in the opening position of your exercises. Nothing drastic, just a slight tilt backward.”

* * *

Chromia watched as, under Elita-1’s careful and rather inventive instruction, Starwish went from choppy bursts of timid forward motion to smooth circles around the perimeter of the courtyard at a decent speed. With a tiny smile and shake of her helm, she opened a private channel to her friend and leader, ::How did you know that relating her Alt Mode to those dancing exercises she occasionally lets us see would work?::

Elita-1 continued to gently coach Starwish on her driving as she replied, ::When I transferred to my second frame, something in the process caused a glitch in my Alternate Mode control subroutines, making me unable to control it properly. Rather then have medics reprogram the subroutine, my dance instructor managed to convince my creators to let him teach me to work around the glitch.::

Chromia raised an optic ridge, ::He related it to his dancing lessons?::

Elita-1 called a brief encouragement to her pupil before answering, ::Indeed. It proved surprisingly effective and enabled me to avoid a trip to a processor specialist.::

Chromia nodded appreciatively, ::Nice trick. Seems to be working wonders for Starwish. Do you think her Alt Mode phobia is because of all those glitches in her processor?::

Elita-1 moved to stand next to her friend as Flareup and Moonracer coaxed Starwish out of the courtyard and onto the race track itself, ::I find it highly likely. Do you have any idea on how the mechs are handling Hardwire? I have not seen him.::

Chromia grinned, ::According to Ironhide, he’s managing well enough, but he has the most ridiculous Alt mode a mech of his talents could have.::

Elita-1 silently cocked her helm to one side in question and Chromia obligingly sent her the still photo that Ironhide had sent to her. Elita-1 looked surprised for a klik, but then folded her servos behind her back sedately, ::I don’t know. It seems to fit his role as the elder brother to the twinlings.::

Chromia snorted, ::I suppose if you look at it that way. But … it’s far too civilian looking for an Autobot.::

Elita-1 turned a dry gaze on her friend, ::You would prefer that he have a tank mode perhaps?::

Chromia shrugged, ::A tank, a mobile artillery piece, even a truck like Ironhide. I’m not too picky. But a Tyger Pax wilderness youngling transport is just … too pacifistic.::

Elita-1 chuckled and said aloud as she smoothly transformed into a four wheel Iacon R-12 race car, “Something tells me that Hardwire prefers to appear pacifistic. Come, let us make sure that your protege does not convince Starwish to try the Light-Cycle section of the track just yet.”

Chromia briefly stuck out her bottom lip component before dropping into her own alt mode, a slightly outdated but still incredibly fast and sturdy, Iacon G-29 Sentinel, “Fine. If you insist on being **responsible** and all…”

Elita-1 pulled onto the track and began driving after her femmes, “I do.”

Chromia revved her engine and shot ahead, “In that case … last one there doesn’t get to lecture Flareup about splashing Moonracer with the mercury puddles! Woo!”

* * *

Hardwire flung himself into the turn, wincing as he slid too close to the wall and scraped some of his paint. Again. With a growl in his engine, he swerved, barely dodging the powered down laser fire that peppered the road in front of him. The blasts were training rounds, non-lethal and non-damaging, but they stung like crazy if they hit. The stings were like the apex of all static shocks. Brief, painful, and freakishly annoying.

He yelled angrily at his tormentors as he jumped a ramp and landed with a jolt to his tires, “How is **this** learning to drive?”

From his crouched position on a higher path, Ironhide roared cheerfully, “You haven’t crashed into anything in ten breems have you? You’re improving!”

Ironhide’s ‘fellow instructors’, Motioncap, Dark-Trail, and Bulletpoint, howled with laughter as they took potshots at him as he swerved under one of the many overpasses in the massive obstacle course that Ironhide had so un-inspiringly called ‘the race track’. Hardwire snarled several of the rudest Swedish expletives he knew, courtesy of a rather ‘rough around the edges’ transfer student he had befriended in High School, over the com at his ‘teachers’.

Motioncap cheerfully asked, ::What do those words mean, Hardwire?:: A fake grenade, all noise and bright light without any of the risk to circuitry, plopped underneath the overpass he had taken shelter beneath as Motioncap spoke. Hissing more curses under the sound of his heaving vents, Hardwire slammed down on his accelerator, his tires squealing as they sought traction so soon after a complete stop. He surged out from under the overpass and into the hail of waiting laser fire, just barely getting out of the grenade’s range in time.

In answer to Motioncap’s question, Hardwire switched to descriptive English terms while a vague part of him wondered how he could have acquired such a collection of ‘colorful’ words without even trying. Spotting a ramp that would lead him to a higher level of the obstacle course, Hardwire turned toward it so tightly that he nearly went onto two wheels. Surging up the ramp, he barreled toward his attackers, bellowing an English war cry as he sought to bodily slam into Ironhide.

Ironhide laughed, his optics twinkling with the Cybertronian equivalent of adrenaline as he transformed and fled Hardwire’s angry charge, “Catch me if you can, youngling!”

Hardwire poured on every ounce of speed his frame had as he yelled back, “I’m gonna make you look like you went through a demolition derby!”

One of Bulletpoint’s shots found its mark and Hardwire hissed at the jolt that went through his frame, ::Cyber-Standard, Hardwire! You’re threats will have so much more meaning if you speak in Cyber-Standard!::

Hardwire summoned enough willpower to break through the ‘language barrier’ to hiss, ::Go jump in a **smelter**!::

Dark-Trail’s alt mode, a sleek, low race car that would have put a Lamborghini to utter shame, pulled up next to his much larger alt mode. Dark-Trail called cheekily, “Aw, don’t be like that, Wire! You’re enjoying this and you know it!”

Grudgingly, Hardwire did have to admit that the wild game of chase and dodge was kind of fun in a painful sort of way … but he certainly wasn’t going to let Dark-Trail know that, “That doesn’t mean I’m not going to curse you mechs to the Pit and back for this!”

Hardwire hunkered down on his tires as he chased the laughing Ironhide and Dark-Trail through a loop-de-loop, inwardly wondering on just when his life had become so utterly weird.

His chase was interrupted when Ironhide suddenly transformed on a flat stretch and he commed, ::Hold up! Do you mechs hear that?:: Hardwire reluctantly slowed to a stop and triggered his transformation with a little bit of difficulty. _This better not be a trap._

Bulletpoint and Motioncap commed in from their positions on a bridge across from them, ::I hear it, are there others using the track this cycle? The twins maybe?:: Hardwire listened, trying to determine what they were talking about. After a moment, his audios picked up the unmistakable roars of other engines in the distance.

Ironhide cocked his helm to one side as he listened to the steadily approaching sounds, ::No, the engine is too high pitched for their modes. It’s probably the femmes, they’re working on Starwish’s driving skills.::

Hardwire hissed softly as he shook himself a little bit, feeling sore from so much time spent in his newly discovered alt mode, “Not the same way you’re ‘working’ on mine, I hope.”

Ironhide gave a snorting laugh as his optics swept the scene, searching for the other vehicles on the track, “Pit no, femmes like to take things nice, slow, and boring. At least at first.”

From the safety of the bridge, Bulletpoint commed, ::I’ll tell Chromia you said that.::

Ironhide didn’t look away from the horizon as he unsubspaced his right cannon and fired at Bulletpoint’s location. His hit was confirmed by the pained yelp as the ‘slightly-stronger-than-average-training-blast’ smacked into the cheeky mech.

The impending argument was cut off by the sight of a sleek white motorcycle surging over the rise. _Is that?_ The motorcycle was followed closely by several other vehicles with familiar color schemes. With a lurch from the frame that would have been impossible for an Earth bike, the motorcycle launched off of the wide road and onto a narrow track that ran next to the main path, rearing into a flashy one wheel pose for a moment before settling and skimming around a corner with an eerily familiar flare. _It is!_

Hardwire couldn't stop the grin forming on his faceplates at the impressed noises the other mechs were making as the three sleek vehicles engaged in an enthusiastic race just ahead of them. _She always was a fast learner on those driving sims._

Motioncap made a disbelieving noise in his vocalizer, ::Is that white Light-Cycle … Starwish?:: The dumbfounded mech’s question was answered when the two-wheeler surged into a loop-de-loop that ended in a high ramp, gaining enough speed to go sailing high and transform in mid-air. Starwish’s lithe form went spread-eagle for a moment, seemingly suspended high above the bridge Hardwire, Ironhide, and Dark-Trail were standing on by invisible string before curling into a tight ball and transforming back into her alt mode with her wheels spinning just as she hit the metal roadway again.

Hardwire whistled shrilly and started clapping as Starwish pulled to a halt in front of the mechs and transformed again, vents working heavily, “Nice flip, Starwish! Nice flip!”

All of the other mechs started clapping as well, leading to Starwish shrinking down and blushing just as the other two vehicles took the ramp up to the bridge and drove over to them. The two cars transformed into Flareup and Moonracer, who promptly mobbed Starwish. Flareup placed her servos on her hips and said, “Scrap, femling! I didn’t actually think you’d do it!”

Moonracer hugged Starwish, who squeaked weakly, “I can’t believe you managed a flip on you fourth loop-de-ramp! You’re a natural at this, Starwish!”

Dark-Trail nudged Hardwire in the side, “How come you didn’t do those kinds of tricks just now?”

Hardwire shoved Dark-Trail away from his sore side, “Because I was being **shot at**. Besides, Starwish’s alt mode and reaction time are more conducive to that reckless stuff. If I tried that I’d just end up flat on my faceplates.”

Shoving past the snickering Dark-Trail, Hardwire carefully nudged his way past Flareup and Moonracer to his flustered sister’s side, switching carefully to English as he rubbed her back, “Just breathe, Star. Just breathe. Have a nice moment of total insanity?”

Starwish glowered at him as she replied in the same language, “It was either the jump or Flareup’s constant needling and the ramp can’t follow me around nagging me.”

Hardwire laughed, it took a lot to make Starwish speak so candidly, “At least you haven’t spent the past joor or so being shot at in order to learn ‘evasive road maneuvers’-ouch!” Hardwire jumped at the unexpected jolt that hit his back and looked over his shoulder to glare across the race track to the cheerfully waving Bulletpoint, ::That was a cheap shot, Point.::

Bulletpoint commed back, ::Should’ve watched your back, Wire!:: Hardwire grumbled and chose to ignore Bulletpoint in favor of nodding to Elita-1 and Chromia who had just arrived. _There really is one in every crowd I guess. Even alien robot crowds._

Chromia and Elita-1 approached the gathering gracefully, looking for all the world like a royal princess and her faithful femme escort. The impression was ruined when Chromia looked Hardwire up and down critically and declared, “You look like a scrap, mechling. What’d you do, try to outfight a horde of scraplets?”

Hardwire shot the guffawing Ironhide a dark look as he replied, “Tried to avoid getting shot by your sparkmate and my so called ‘friends’ actually.”

Elita-1 smiled and interjected gently, “In that case, you look better than is to be expected. You as well, Starwish, that was a remarkable jump. If a reckless one for your first time driving.”

Starwish mumbled a sheepish apology, her optics staring firmly at the ground as she folded her servos meekly in front of her, “Sorry, ma’am.”

Elita-1 tilted Starwish’s chin upwards with a gentle servo, “You are not in trouble, Starwish. I am merely impressed that you mastered your alternate mode enough to safely perform that trick on your first time on this track.” Elita-1 briefly shot Flareup a look and, judging by Flareup’s responding flinch, the pink femme had just issued a sharp scolding to Flareup for goading Starwish into attempting the jump stunt over a private com.

Chromia grasped Ironhide’s left arm lazily as she interrupted, “I think that’s enough trick-driving for now, mechs and femmes. Who wants to go to the pub for a drink?”

Dark-Trail, Flareup, and Ironhide all voiced enthusiastic agreements. Bulletpoint and Motioncap, who had arrived on the bridge just moments before, voiced their happy opinions of the idea as well, cheerfully jostling Hardwire as they did so. Elita-1 straightened up and nodded in acceptance of the majority vote, “Very well. I suppose we have made enough progress in your driving skills for one cycle. Do you wish to join them in the pub, Starwish?”

Starwish shook her helm, “Uh, maybe later. If it’s okay, I’d like to go to the wash racks first.”

Hardwire glanced down at his scuffed frame, “ _Ditto_. I’m going to be in enough trouble with Ratchet as it is.”

Flareup glanced dismissively at his dents and scraped paint, “Hardly, that’s nothing compared to what most of the mechs end up with when they start racing in here. Sideswipe-”

Hardwire held up his servo in a sharp silencing action, “No. I don’t want to know. I’m nervous enough with that mech being one of Zip’s and Track’s Guardians as it is. I don’t need more evidence to add to that worry.”

Chromia glowered sternly, “Oh those two had better not take the twinlings racing or I’m going to-”

Ironhide shushed his mate, “Easy Chromia. No swearing around femlings remember?”

Chromia huffed, “I know, I know. Anyway, let’s just get to the pub.”

Flareup pumped one servo in the air while the other wrapped around Starwish’s shoulders, “Onward! To a bath and energon goodies for the road conquering femme!”

Starwish joined in the good natured laughter as they all transformed and drove for the exit, Hardwire tolerantly accepting the good natured teasing the other drivers sent his way as they left the arena and headed back for the main base and a cube of energon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before anyone asks, no Hardwire is not a bus. XD He's the sci-fi version of a Jeep Hummer Pickup truck.


	4. Backstory: Breaking Down the Moments - Pt 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Transformers Prime, Breakdown and Bulkhead clearly know each other, but how did they meet? Well, it starts with the Wreckers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes this is a part 1, no there are no other parts (yet). I got sidetracked. But if people like this I might bump up the sequel to a higher priority.

The transport wasn’t very full as it hummed toward the secret location of the Wreckers’ HQ. Counting the pilot, a jaded mech who called himself Seaspray, and the mech who had been overseeing recruitment operations, it had the grand total of four mechs inside it actually.

There had only been two mechs out of the ten volunteers who had cleared the rigorous tests for the Wreckers in the Praxus area. Three of the volunteers had been dropped because of how weak their armor was and the others because it was clear they would never make it in the harsh life of a wild Wrecker.

Only two of the mechs had passed the first, and really only, test. Both of them had met the overwhelming numbers of holographic enemies without flinching and had fought their hardest to not only complete the mission goal but to protect their simulated allies. Both of them had failed to ‘survive’ the objective, each one chose to blow themselves up with the facility when the remote detonator failed.

Surprising really, considering their castes and backgrounds. But the Wreckers were hardly a choosy bunch and it would have been considered a waste of fuel to fly all the way back to base without at least two potential rookies in tow. So, they had been accepted and were being flown back to the Wreckers’ current HQ to be trained.

One of the rookie Wreckers, a large, green mech still bearing the marks of a Rank-B Construction worker, shifted nervously every few kliks, his blue optics glancing from the ship floor, to his fellow passenger, to the pilot, and back again. He looked decidedly nervous about the entire affair and was sporting several dents from the holo-test.

The second mech in the transport watched the green mech idly through the reflection in the nearby view port. Unlike the green mech, he wasn’t fidgety. He was used to long trips with dangerous destinations and strange company. That was the life of a contracted Thrall Gladiator after all. Still, it was kind of irking to see the construction mech trying to subtly gawk at him like he was some kind of tamed scraplet.

Finally having enough of the awkward silence and furtive looks, the mech grunted, “See something interesting?”

The green mech jerked back, startled at the sudden sentence, “Uh, no! Well, yeah. I mean-”

The mech who had first spoken curled his lip plating into a sneer as he continued to speak to the green mech’s reflection, not even bothering to turn around, “What’s the matter, didn’t expect a lowly **Thrall** to be able to talk?”

The green mech leaned farther away, still shaking his helm, “No-no! That isn’t it!”

Yellow optics flashing, he finally turned his helm to face the other mech, “Than **what**?”

“I’ve never seen a mech with a shoulder cannon before!” The fumbled sentence brought the other mech’s anger up short.

Blinking, he asked cautiously, “What?”

The green mech nodded vigorously, seeming to gain confidence now that the first sentence was out, “I’ve never seen a shoulder mounted cannon before. I mean … I’ve heard about mods like that but I’ve never actually seen one. Well, not until a few joors ago. See, when I came out of my testing room, you were still doing yours and I caught a glimpse of the overseer’s screen and saw you using it and I just … I kept wondering where you got it.”

Feeling rather off balance at the non-contemptuous reason for staring, he answered blankly, “My sponsor had me equipped with them.”

He was sure that the reminder that he was a former Thrall would shut the green mech up again. Instead, the round framed fellow seemed completely oblivious to the implications of his sentence and rambled on happily, “Wow! Talk about lucky. I mean, here we are, headed for a war-time assignment and I’ve only got my wrecking balls to fight with. You’ve got cannons!”

The youngling-like enthusiasm made him smile, “Wrecking balls, eh? Sounds like they’d be fun to play around with in the ring. Don’t worry, they’ll probably give you a blaster or something when we get there. I heard that Wreckers got all of the best equipment stored away too.”

The green mech cocked his helm to one side, “Really? How come?”

Glancing out of the window again to check their progress, he shrugged, “The founders of the Wreckers are said to be the remnants of the Council’s Elite Guard. Next to the Prime’s guard, they’d have all the best toys and tech in order to keep the Council safe.”

The green mech looked excited and scared at the same time, “Wonder if they’d let me see some of that tech…”

He shrugged, “Maybe. If not, I got a spare blaster you can have if you want.”

This elicited a shy response that somehow seemed ready to burst with excitement, “Really?”

Reaching into his subspace, he pulled out an old yet well cared for Scatter Blaster and offered it to the green mech, “Sure. Here. Careful now, it’s a quirky old thing.”

The green mech took it reverently, handling it with the awe of someone who had never believed he would hold a weapon of that infamy and caliber one cycle. The working caste were forbidden projectile weaponry after all, the only things they had to defend themselves were the tools they used for their functions.

Suddenly looking up from the Scatter Blaster, the green mech said, “Oh! I forgot! We don’t even know each other’s designations!” The green mech grinned at him, “I’m Heavy Construction/ Demolition unit B01K-H38D. But my friends just call me Bulkhead.”

Chuckling softly, he dipped his helm in acknowledgement of the new information. Miners weren’t allowed designations and Thralls only got one if they earned a nickname in the Arena. Still, what could it hurt to choose a designation for himself? His old master had been offlined in the recent Decepticon terror attacks and there was no one around to take him to task about not using his number and function title, “Call me Breakdown. I’m a Wrecker.”

From the cockpit, there was a guffaw and a faint call of, “Not yet you’re not, newbie!”

Breakdown rolled his optics from behind their blast resistant lenses, “Yeah, yeah. Whatever, yah old scrapheap.”

The voice called again from the cockpit, “The designation is Drill-Master Kup to you, Rookie!”

Breakdown felt his lip plating twitch with the urge to sneer. Deciding the confrontation wasn’t worth it, he called, “Yes, sir!” and waited several breems before leaning forward and whispering secretively, “Just watch. You and me? We’re gonna make **him** look like the rookie once they let us loose on those ‘Cons.”

Bulkhead grinned at him, “Think so?”

Breakdown nodded firmly before leaning back in his seat and hooking his servos behind his helm, “Oh yeah. Just stick with me, Bulkhead, I’ll show you how it’s done. You’ll be giving those ‘Cons new facial features with those wrecking balls of yours in no time.”

Bulkhead’s grin broadened a little as he carefully subspaced the Scatter Blaster Breakdown had just given him and he moved over to sit next to Breakdown, “Sounds like fun, partner!”

Breakdown hid his surprise at the term. He knew that Construction mechs often had work partners as a way to reduce the time of training rookies in the ways of their function, but he had never heard that term used on him before. _Partner huh? I think I like the sound of that…_

* * *

**Two metacycles later:…**

Drill-Master Kup’s uniquely gravelly yet biting voice rang out over the simulation arena yet again that cycle, “Faster you Core Slugs! I’m gonna rust by the time you get to the end of this course! Bulkhead! Move you’re offline chassis, you’re holding up the others! Breakdown! Don’t think I didn’t see that gesture in my direction! Just for that, you’ll **all** be doing another run-through of this wonderful exercise!” A concerted groan rang out from the recruits as the ones who had finished the course already were forced to circle back to the beginning and start all over again.

Breakdown snarled under the sound of his intakes as he skidded around a tight corner in his alt mode and hastily reverted to his bipedal mode in order to dive behind cover as yet another cannon emplacement opened fire, “Bulkhead! Get down!”

Rumbling around the corner with the stubbornly determined slowness only a construction orientated alt mode could achieve, Bulkhead transformed and hastily hid behind a pillar not too far away from Breakdown, “Did you have to do that?”

Breakdown popped up from his cover long enough to fire a quick round at the emplacement with his shoulder cannon before ducking down again, “Give you a warning? Not really. Want me to stop?”

Bulkhead grumbled as he pulled his Scatter Blaster from subspace and fired a few clumsy rounds at the emplacement even though he was still out of the weapon’s practical range, “Not that! Why do you have to frag off Kup all the time?”

Breakdown laughed as two other Wrecker recruits barreled around the corner and were immediately ‘killed’ by the emplacement, “Because it’s fun!”

Their banter was interrupted by the high pitched purr of an engine as another recruit barreled around the corner, swerving lightly on his tires to dodge the emplacement blasts. The newcomer to the situation, a sleek white alt mode with a red and green Slaughter City racing crest emblazoned on its hood, tore across the ground toward the base of the cannon with a single-minded purpose that made Breakdown grin excitedly.

Activating his cannon again, Breakdown called to Bulkhead, “Hey Bulky! Let’s help him out!”

Bulkhead blinked, “How? The cannon’s too far away!”

Breakdown glanced over his cover at the, decidedly crazy, mech who was still careening across the course, trying to reach the cannon emplacement. The mech wasn’t having much luck, the cannon’s sensors, programed to take out the most obvious and closest targets, was firing away at high speeds, forcing the mech to swerve away from his target time and again or else be shot and ‘killed.’

 _Looks like fun,_ Breakdown whooped, “Follow my lead, Bulky!” With that, he dived out from the cover of an old hunk of broken machinery, transformed, and tore across the course to join the other mech in swerving cannon blasts. His cannon swiveled on its new position of his alt mode roof and he began firing away at the emplacement to get the bigger cannon’s attention.

Its programing immediately registered Breakdown as a more present threat and switched its aim to focus on him, causing Breakdown to skid hard to the right in order to avoid being blasted. Transforming again, Breakdown rolled behind a pile of old oil barrels, hissing a little bit at the numb throb in his side that indicated that the cannon had nicked him with its heavy stun setting. _Fragging cannon._

A cyber-cat like purr heralded the new mech diving behind the same cover as Breakdown, transforming swiftly into his root mode so as to crouch low and glare at the emplacement. Breakdown studied the mech briefly, taking in the smaller frame, armored sensor fins on his helm and the central jut in the helm that was clearly meant to be used in slamming an opponent’s unprepared forehelm.

Blue optics mixed with a hint of green glanced at Breakdown appraisingly, obviously inspecting Breakdown with the same practiced ease as the ex-thrall. Both came to the same conclusion about the other and Breakdown dipped his helm in greeting to the other mech curtly, “Breakdown, Iaconian Gladiatorial arena. You?”

The smaller mech smirked lazily, “Wheeljack, Slaughter City Derby Runner.” Breakdown nodded to himself, that certainly explained the mech’s skill in driving. Wheeljack glanced over at where Bulkhead was hunching behind a barricade wall far too small to adequately cover his frame, “Who’s the green mech?”

Breakdown idly fired at the cannon emplacement, diverting its attention away from Bulkhead, “His designation’s Bulkhead. Construction/Demolition mech.”

Wheeljack’s optics lit up hopefully, “He packing any firepower?”

Breakdown shook his helm, “Nah. Just his wrecking balls and a scatter blaster. Why? Got a plan?”

Wheeljack looked calculatingly at the emplacement, “Well, I **was** planning on climbing up the base and rewiring that thing to blow, but I can’t get close enough without getting shot.” Breakdown eyed Wheeljack thoughtfully, he hadn’t expected a Derby Runner to know how to rewire a cannon, but who was he to judge?

Breakdown rolled his shoulder struts, “You could really rig it to blow?”

Wheeljack raised an optic ridge, “Sure, if I can get to the base.”

Breakdown grinned, “Well then, I guess we’ll just have to get you to the base. Ever play Lob?” Wheeljack gave a confused nod, “Good, then you’ll know what to do. Get going as soon as the show starts and stay right on my bumper. Hey, Bulkhead!”

Bulkhead twisted his helm around to look over at Breakdown, “What?”

Breakdown shouted, “Dodge, Lob, and Wreck!” Bulkhead’s faceplates morphed into an eager smile at Breakdown’s words, they had both been waiting to try that maneuver ever since they had overheard Seaspray talking about it.

Without another word, both heavy framed mechs transformed and tore out into view of the cannon, swerving and weaving on their tires as Breakdown opened fire, laughing the entire time. Wheeljack stayed close to Breakdown’s bumper, practically invisible to the cannon’s sensors because of his close proximity to Breakdown’s larger profile. As they drew closer to the cannon’s base, Breakdown and Bulkhead swerved close to each other suddenly. Breakdown veered right and roared, “Lob, Wheeljack!”

Wheeljack, startled by the sudden veer, found himself now tailing Bulkhead as the heavy set construction vehicle plowed forward, able to take more grazing hits from the cannon than any other recruit. For all of his slowness and lack of experience, Bulkhead’s impact and electrical-resistant frame made him the perfect shield for the remaining distance to the cannon base. When they were only a few meters away, Bulkhead swerved to the left, cheerfully calling, “Lob!” to Wheeljack, who now found himself with a short, straight shot to the cannon emplacement.

With a whoop, Wheeljack sank on his axels and sped to the emplacement, transforming in a flying leap that carried him up to a ledge halfway up the emplacement. Wheeljack waved to the other two mechs, who had taken cover just in time to avoid being taken out of the exercise, and began climbing up to the cannon itself. Other recruits, pinned down at the first turn where the cannon could detect them, were now cheering and bellowing encouragement to the three crazy mechs as Wheeljack agilely swung up onto the cannon, ripped off one of its panels, and began wreaking havoc with the wiring.

With a whine, the cannon suddenly jerked upward, firing randomly into the sky before it spun three hundred and sixty degrees, knocking Wheeljack off in the process, and exploded spectacularly. Cheers rose from the other recruits as Breakdown and Bulkhead rushed to check on the prone Wheeljack. Bulkhead leaned worriedly over the white and striped mech, “Hey! Are you okay?”

Wheeljack’s optics flickered a little bit before he sat up with a low groan, “That never happened on the Derby course…” looking up at them, he grinned broadly, “wanna go again?”

Breakdown laughed and helped him up, “Maybe next run through, for now, lets get to the finish line.”

Working together, the three mechs soon crossed the finish line of the obstacle course in triumph where they were promptly congratulated by Kup for their teamwork … and were assigned to scrub all of the barracks clean for destroying an expensive piece of equipment. **After** they did the obstacle course all over again. Wheeljack had nearly rebelled at the punishment, but Bulkhead had managed to keep the fiery derby runner from getting them into even deeper trouble. Breakdown had found the entire thing hilarious beyond words to see his huge green friend timidly try to rein in the temper of a mech who was so much smaller than him.

Ten joors later, Breakdown, Wheeljack, and Bulkhead were sprawled on their berths in Barracks 12-B, chatting about random things as they polished their frames for the officer inspection scheduled next cycle. They hadn’t originally been all assigned to the same barracks, but after the stunt they had pulled, they had been reassigned to the ‘trouble-makers’ barracks.

Wheeljack negligently ran the buffer over part of his frame, only making half-sparked attempts to remove the chips and scratches that he’d received in training as he chatted with Bulkhead animatedly about his adventures in the Slaughter City Derby, “Gotta be fast on both your wheels and your pedes if you want to make it through the derby. All the other racers try to knock you out of the race whenever they can.”

Bulkhead rubbed a polishing cloth over his chest plates, “So that’s how you learned to move so fast. I’ve never seen anyone do such a high jump by transforming. Think you could teach me some of those tricks?”

Wheeljack idly smacked the buffer against his berth to try and make it work as he answered, “Sure, Bulk. Think you can teach me how to make explosives in exchange?”

Bulkhead nodded eagerly, “Sure! Breakdown even figured out how to turn them into grenades! Isn’t that right Breakdown?” Breakdown didn’t respond, he was glaring steadily at Wheeljack’s attempts to buff his frame, one optic beginning to twitch softly as Wheeljack almost used the wrong side of the buffer. Bulkhead cycled his vents a little bit, “Uh, Breakdown?”

Breakdown suddenly got up from his berth, sat down next to Wheeljack, and snatched the buffer, “Frag it all, you’re going to make it worse. Give me that!” Wheeljack’s vocalizer gave a blip of static in surprise as Breakdown firmly grabbed Wheeljack’s wrist, extended the smaller mech’s arm, and began meticulously running the buffer over the scratches. Breakdown recited buffing instructions silently as he carefully turned Wheeljack’s arm over and began smoothing out the scratches on the other side, _apply pressure, but not too much. The lighter the scratch, the less pressure needed. For heavy scratches, apply more pressure and slowly rotate the buffer counter-clockwise._

Finishing with Wheeljack’s arm, he stood up and firmly pushed Wheeljack into a prone position on the berth so he could buff Wheeljack’s chest plates. He barely glanced up from his work when he sensed Wheeljack staring at him silently for three solid breems, “What?”

Wheeljack just blinked at him, a look of bafflement on his faceplates. Bulkhead heaved himself off of his berth and ambled over to watch Breakdown from over his shoulder plating, “You’re buffing him.”

Breakdown glowered at Bulkhead’s mystified tone, “Yeah, so? He obviously can’t do it himself.”

Bulkhead rubbed the back of his helm, “No offense, Break, but … how did **you** learn to buff?”

Breakdown shrugged as he carefully worked on a very persistent scratch, “Friend of mine taught me before the war. He was a Frame Mechanic, couldn’t stand the fact that he couldn’t keep my frame looking nice all the time, so he taught me how to do it myself. Why? Didn’t think I could?”

Bulkhead shook his helm, “Well … not really. I mean, you don’t really…” blue optics glanced up and down Breakdown’s sturdy frame, “look the part.”

Breakdown snorted as he finally let Wheeljack up and started working on his new friend’s back plating, “Yeah, yeah, I look like scrap. Never owned a buffer of my own.” _Knockout would still probably have my helm for letting my frame get all of these scratches and stuff._

Wheeljack grunted as Breakdown made him lean forward a little, “Are you almost done, **danni**?”

Breakdown cuffed him lightly, taking care not to mar his own work as he did so, “Call me that again, **mechling** , and I’m gonna make you eat this buffer.” Wheeljack sniggered but didn’t say anything more, he apparently wasn’t in the mood to push his luck with the big ex-gladiator.

Another resident of Barracks 12-B, a triple-changer named Springer, looked up from polishing his neutron assault rifle, “Hey, think you could buff me? I can’t use that thing worth scrap.”

Breakdown glared at him silently, he wasn’t anyones’ servant anymore. He was only buffing Wheeljack because he had taken a liking to the feisty mech. Seeing the look, Springer raised his servos placatingly, “I’ll pay you for it! Half of next cycle’s rations?”

Other mechs in the barracks, seeing the opportunity to have someone else do the tedious work of buffing for them, began piping up as well, offering either part of their rations or trinkets they had acquired over their travels in an attempt to buy Breakdown’s services. Feeling suddenly unsure, no one had ever offered to pay him before, Breakdown glanced at Bulkhead. Bulkhead shrugged helplessly, he was just as baffled at Breakdown. Wheeljack turned his helm to eye Breakdown over his shoulder, silently appraising the yellow opticed mech.

Extra rations were tempting, but something about the situation made him uneasy, it reminded him too much of his past as a Thrall for some reason. Breakdown shook his helm, “I only buff friends.” Groans of disappointment and protest rose from the other mechs. However, since none of them wanted to get into any more trouble that cycle, they dispersed without much trouble, returning to their own attempts to shine their own frames and gear.

Wheeljack continued to study Breakdown for several kliks before shifting to stare at the wall, “Friends, huh?” The words were so low that Breakdown almost missed them despite their close proximity.

Breakdown grunted, “If you can put up with my crazy slag, I’ll put up with yours. Deal?”

Wheeljack’s tone indicated that he was smiling, “Deal. Sounds like fun.”

Bulkhead sounded hopeful, “Am I your friend too?” Breakdown’s response to the, in his opinion, stupid question, was to silently turn around, push Bulkhead onto his berth and start running the buffer firmly over the large scratch that had taken up residence on the green chest plate.

Wheeljack turned around, leaning carefully against the wall as he crossed his legs and pillowed his helm with his servos, “I think that means your stuck with us, Bulky.”

Breakdown shot a glare at Wheeljack, “Don’t even think about scratching your back plating against that wall.”

Wheeljack’s mouth quirked upward in a lopsided smile, “Whatever you say … **danni**.”

The next cycle saw all of the inhabitants of Barracks 12-B on punishment detail for breaking down part of the barrack wall during a mid-lunar-cycle brawl. Kup watched three of the newest recruits jostle each other and call each other insults jovially as they worked on repairing the wall. None of them holding a grudge for the dents and scratches liberally covering their frames and acting as trophies from the lunar-cycle’s escapades.

Impactor rested one servo on his hip thoughtfully, “Those are them?”

Kup nodded curtly, “Aye, sir. They’re the ones who started it. They’ve been trouble makers since cycle one.”

Impactor glanced down at the datapad in his left servo, studying the report Drill-Master Kup had compiled on the three newest recruits. Looking back to the repair work below, Impactor smirked, “Sound’s like they’ll fit right in then. Carry on, Kup.”

Kup waited until Impactor was out of audio range before snorting through his vents, _course they’ll fit in. Wouldn’t be Wrecker material if they didn’t raise pit any chance they got._ Striding down the hill, Kup bellowed, “Oy! What are you doing? That hole isn’t going to repair itself! Move your rusted husks before I move them for you! Wheeljack! That’s a welder, not a femme! Stop fiddling with it and get to work on that wall! Whirl! Stop throwing those bolts at Breakdown or I’m going to let him use **you** to patch that wall instead of the sheet metal!” _Doesn’t mean I’m going to go easy on them._


	5. Backstory: Sound of Fate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A look into the origins of Soundwave in AMOSC, and the events that led up to her undying loyalty to Megatron.

The cell was dark. The only visible light was the faint red glow coming from the humming bars that blocked the entrance. In front of her, on the outside of the cell, stood two guards, ready to escort her when the time came or stop her should she change her mind and attempt to run.

Outside of the cell, beyond the long, rusted tunnel the guards were standing in, beyond the gate that kept the shadows of the tunnel firmly contained, was her fate. A fate that either ended in death or triumph, either option being ushered in and cheered for by the screams of thousands of eager spectators.

She stood in front of an energon-stained wall-ledge that was supposed to serve as a berth for the cell occupants, her pedes planted firmly on the uncleaned floor as she stood rigidly in the center of the tiny enclosure. There was no way she was touching that ledge. She wasn’t a medic by any means, but even she could tell that there was a high chance of viruses or other contaminants remaining active in the long dried energon residue. The last thing she needed was to be weakened because of carelessness, her survival was a small enough percentage as it was.

To the guards outside, it was probably silent accept for the hum of the bars, their own hydraulics, and the faint rumble of the outside world that awaited their prisoner. It was not silent to her, though. To her, a cacophony of conflicting sounds pounded like waves all around. Never ceasing, never pausing, just wave after wave of sound, all heard via the vibrations in the floor as the sound traveled through the metal and underneath her sensitive pedes.

Her spark twinged nervously and, to distract herself from her growing fear, she focused on deciphering the sounds vibrating all around her. The most noticeable sound was, of course, the crowd outside, followed closely by the unmistakable sound of an announcer stoking their fervor into an even greater frenzy. A wild vibration went through her pedes and she was sure that even the guards outside sensed it, despite their ridiculously insensitive audio receptors and thick pede armor.

One of the guards looked over his shoulder to sneer at her, “Hear that, mech? In a few breems that’ll be you. Or at least, the last sound you’ll ever hear.” She did not respond or move, he was only baiting her and thus, wasn’t worth her time. _To react is to give ground, to be calm is to seem in control._ A crisp voice recited the phrase automatically in her processor, reminding her not to answer as the guard tried to provoke her a few more times before giving up and falling silent again.

The throb of sound was quieting marginally and her spark clenched in its chamber as she realized that it was almost time. Sure enough, the two guards turned to face the cell, the bars remotely deactivating with a hiss of static and escaped plasma particles. The guard who had tried to provoke her leered confidently as he motioned for her to exit the cell, “Well, come on, mech. Almost time for you to become scrap-metal.”

The guard on the right just studied her critically, his energon pike held ready should she try anything, “Careful with this one, Onager, volunteers can be more dangerous than you think. This one’s made it rather far too.”

Onager shot his companion a disdainful look as they herded her out of the cell and down the long, eerie tunnel, “Seriously, Mangonel? This one’s an Aerial Broadcaster for the mines. Look at that frame! He may have been good enough to climb the ranks a few times but he won’t last more than a breem in this match.” _Actually, I’ll last three._ That was the deal, she reminded herself as she mostly tuned out the guards on either side of her. If she could survive three breems, she would be in the clear. Arsenic would be in the clear.

They walked slowly down the tunnel, their pace purposely calculated to give the current match ample time to both start and finish. During the slow march, her mind raced, pulling up memories, motives for being here, for what might very well be the last time.

**Flashback: Tarn, Gossama-Di Clan Estate,**

**__ ** _She was a first-frame youngling, crying in confusion as her mech creator towered over her and snarled commandingly, “You will not_ **_ever_ ** _do that again! Do you hear me?”_

_She looked up, vents resetting and hiccuping from the strain of keeping her cool as she whimpered, “I-I’m sorry!”_

_A flash of rage stabbed her spark from her mech creator and his roar made her hastily silence her vocalizer, “Be quiet! Younglings, especially femlings, are to be seen but not heard, understand? You are to be seen but_ **_not heard_ ** _! You are especially not to run up and address the_ **_Prime_ ** _in such a manner! You could have had us all punished! Do you even know what kind of danger you placed the entire clan in? If the Prime was not such a forgiving mech-!”_

_She curled up even more tightly and sobbed, terrified and miserable at making her mech creator so angry. The tirade abruptly stopped and the anger vanished from over their bond. Blinking, she looked up at her mech creator, hoping that the lack of anger meant she was forgiven and that her Opi would pick her up and soothe her fears instead of adding to them. Instead, her mech creator murmured coldly, “I have to go take care of some business now. I’ll be back in a few joors. During the time I am gone you are to behave and think about what you have done wrong. Remember my rules. Don’t disobey me.”_

_She nodded and her Opi swept out of the room without another word. She wanted to voice an apology, but her vocalizer remaining off as her Opi’s words circled in her processor, “You are to be seen but not heard!” So, she remained silent … for about a joor. Then the maid had come in and had played with her, making her forget her creator’s angry rules and happily chat with the friendly femme._

**End of Flashback.**

She puzzled briefly over the last image she had of her mech creator, coldly leaving through the door with his armor still fluffed in anger and she suppressed a sigh.

He had not always been like that. She had earlier files stored on her drives that attested to that fact. Memories of happy games in their private crystal gardens, of him reading aloud to her before her recharge, of him chuckling good-naturedly as she tried to sneak past the servants and grab an energon goodie. But his gentle attitude had always left whenever it came to the matter of guests. Her tutors had trained her to act in certain ways or else disappoint him.

She had tried her best, but honestly, how could anyone expect a youngling just transferred to her first frame to always behave properly? Especially a youngling as inquisitive as she had been. Although she had tried to behave, she had often broken the main rule, “younglings are to be seen but not heard” in order to blurt out a question to a guest or offer a cheerful opinion about things she knew nothing about.

He had always been stern with her after such a breach in protocol, but that had been the first time he had ever been furious at her. Never before had he yelled in such a manner, or left without offering a hug in comfort after a scolding. Perhaps that was what made that particular memory file so distinctive. Perhaps it was because of how rare his anger was that she would always remember that cycle as the beginning of the end. The start of a path that now culminated here, a long, slow march down a tunnel that could only lead to someone’s offlining.

They stopped mid-way in the tunnel and the guards pointed wordlessly to an alcove in the wall that housed weapons for those who had none. A few knives, a long pipe that could serve as a club, several things that were actually mining tools. All rusted and pre-owned, but vital if you had nothing else to use. Her optics swept over the array of makeshift weapons, her calculations over which one, if any, to pick briefly halted by another memory file.

**Flashback: Kaon, alley somewhere on the lower levels,**

_Five cycles had passed since her Opi had left, leaving behind only the order to behave, and she was in incredible pain. Mercury poured from the sky, pounding her frame and only adding to the pain that throbbed endlessly in her spark. She lay in an alley, trying to silence her own cries as her spark pounded relentlessly against the chasm that had suddenly formed in her bond with her mech creator, trying to reach him and ease the pain as energon leaked out of the gaping wound in her chest._

_She didn’t understand. Where was her Opi? Why wasn’t he here? Why hadn’t he come to ease the pain? Why had Opi had left for the Well? That was where Opi’s brother Dark-Rack said he had gone. Dark-Rack had also said that she would be safe soon, that he would make the pain go away. Then he had taken her out of her home, far away from her home and the friendly servants. Dark-Rack had told her he was taking her to her Opi … but then he had slammed a knife into her chest plates, thrown her into a dark scary alley, and left, laughing the entire way. Why had he left her here? Why had he hurt her? Opi wasn’t here, there was only pain._

_Maybe Opi hadn’t come back yet because she’d been bad? Maybe if she did as he said, was seen but not heard, he would come back and make the pain go away? Stubbornly, she tried to silence her whimpers, only for a fresh twinge of pain to make her cry out again. Finally, something snapped within her processor and her vocalizer fell silent with a click. Fresh waves of pain came, but no cry left her, she was silent save for the wheeze of her mercury-clogged vents and cooling fans._

_Just when she thought she couldn’t take the pain anymore, just when she felt everything start to fade, a faceplate appeared over hers, green-blue optics wide, mouth components moving to form words she couldn’t hear. Her own lips moved, soundlessly, mouthing one last hopeful plea, “Opi?”_

**End of Flashback.**

Wordlessly, she turned away from the alcove, she had her own weapons and did not need these rusted emergency tools. Seeing her dismissal, the guard on her left, Onager, sneered at her and jibed, “You’re not going to pick anything as a backup? You must really want to offline then.” _No, I don’t want to offline. I never did. But I need to face death if I’m going to save Arsenic’s life._ Arsenic. Just thinking about him triggered a plethora of memories, feelings, and thoughts. Arsenic had been the one to save her spark so many cycles ago.

He was a medic working in some of the nastiest sections of Kaon as punishment for choosing to work on a critically damaged lower caste patient instead of tending to the minor scrapes of the noble who had so recklessly gone driving while overcharged, causing the lower caste mech so swerve and badly crash in an effort to avoid the unstable noble.

He had found her in the alley while on his way to his housing unit, attracted by the wheeze of her vents and the sound of her last cry. Drunken miners were one thing, one could leave them in the mercury downpour without guilt because of their thick armor and heavy duty cooling systems.

But a youngling with a knife sticking out of her chest plates was another thing altogether and Arsenic had rushed back to his clinic with her in his arms as soon as he’d found her. He had told her later that she was very, very fortunate. Her Opi had must have been paranoid, because Arsenic had discovered that her spark chamber had been reinforced with expensive amounts of highly refined cybertronium. It was that reinforcement that had saved her, stopping the knife from piercing her spark chamber and extinguishing her.

It didn’t stop the knife from leaving a scar on her spark chamber though, a permanent, lightning shaped testament to just how cruel the world could be. Nor did it stop the pain that came from her shattered creator-creation bond.

A humorless smile flitted across her faceplates from behind her mask. How ironic. Her Opi’s paranoia and efforts to keep her safe from harm had instead sentenced her to three orns of pain and silent tears while her spark stabilized from the shattering of their bond. Still, it had saved her spark and granted her a second chance at life, something she did not take lightly.

Neither had Arsenic. Her humorless smile vanished as she continued to muse over her life as the end to the tunnel came steadily closer. Arsenic was a clever mech, it was why he had survived as well as he did in the darker parts of Kaon. He knew in an instant that she wasn’t a Kaonian youngling, or even a Lower Caste creation. Her optic color gave it away, as did the emblem on the engraved knife he had extracted from her chest. She was noble-sparked.

Arsenic had realized that someone had tried to get rid of her because of her status and that if word ever got out of a femme youngling with blue optics was living in Kaon, they would assuredly try again. Arsenic had taken steps to make sure she was never hunted again and had taken a place as her guardian. He had also, in a moment of panic, given her what was simultaneously best and worst cover story in existence.

**Flashback: Kaon, Arsenic’s clinic,**

_Arsenic crouched in front of her, his optic ridges furrowed worriedly as he watched her silently arrange the battered toy building-cubes he had recently given to her, “Hey, youngling.”_

_She looked up obediently, blinking at him from behind the black visor he had made out of the debris-shield from a broken-down mining drill he had found. He insisted she wear the visor at all times and had gotten very distressed last time she had taken it off so as to not see the world with a faint black tint around everything. Was he upset with her? She thought she was following all of the rules._

_She felt her armor tingle as Arsenic scanned her, focusing on her neck before asked softly, “No processor glitches, no damage to the neural wiring, your vocalizer is one of the best I’ve ever seen … so why won’t you speak, little one? Why won’t you make any sounds at all?”_

_She cocked her helm at him, he wanted her to speak? Arsenic motioned to her with a servo and said coaxingly, “Come on, it’s okay. Just say my designation. Or better yet, tell me your designation. Can you tell me your designation, little one? Please? Just one little word…”_

_He wanted to know her name? That was easy enough. She opened her mouth to tell him when her Opi’s words suddenly thundered through her processor, “You are to be seen but not heard!”_

_Immediately, her mouth snapped shut again. No, she wouldn’t disobey her Opi again. Never again. Not after the pain it caused. If she stayed silent long enough, proved that she really could behave all the time, he would come back. He would come back and ease the hollow feeling in her spark that had remained even after the pain had faded away._

_Arsenic’s shoulder struts sagged a little bit at her continued silence, “Alright, youngling. I suppose you just don’t want to speak. That’s fine. But until you tell me your designation, I’ll have to give you one. Maybe…” He was interrupted when the door to his clinic burst open with a bang and a mech limped in._

_The strange mech was snarling words she had never heard before as he stumbled over to the nearest berth and slumped down on it, one pede twisted at an odd angle, “Arsenic! Frag this pede of mine!_ **_Arsenic_ ** _! I need a slagging patch job for this scrapped piece of junk I call a fragging limb!”_

_Arsenic stood up and hurried over to the stranger, leaving the little femling alone on the floor to watch everything in silent curiosity. With a sigh, Arsenic looked down at the oddly angled pede and said, “Already? What did you do this time, D-88? Get it caught in the drill’s tread again?”_

_The mech, D-88 apparently, growled darkly as Arsenic began working on the twisted pede, “Not my fault this time, ‘Senic. D-89 was on his way to his sector when he dropped his external tool kit. It landed on my pede just as I was taking a step and-_ **_fraggit_ ** _!” D-88 swore in pain as Arsenic straightened his pede with rough but skilled servos._

_Arsenic glanced up at D-88 blandly, “Stop swearing, it doesn’t hurt that much.”_

_D-88 growled at Arsenic, but for some reason the watching femling didn’t get the impression that it was actually a threat. It sounded more like it was just pretend anger. D-88 glowered at the top of Arsenic’s helm as the medic continued to work on the damaged pede, “Does too and why can’t I swear? You never payed it any mind before. Frag, you taught me some of these words!”_

_Arsenic looked up sharply, “Because I don’t want those words to imprint on-” his words jerked to a halt and he glanced over at her with fear in his optics before hastily looking away. D-88 followed Arsenic’s quick gaze and his jaw gears went slack from shock when he caught sight of her._

_She had been seen. Hastily trying to behave the way her tutors had drilled into her helm, she scrambled to her pedes, came out from under the berth she’d been using as an imaginary fort, and bowed at the waist to D-88. She also made sure to bite back the pressing question she wanted to ask D-88 of what all those new words meant. Instead, she straightened up, folded her servos behind her back and waited._

_D-88 looked at her, looked at Arsenic, then back at her before sputtering, “What. The. Pit?”_

_Arsenic’s vocalizer gave a burst of static as he scrambled upright and reset his vocalizer a few times. Whirling to stand in between D-88 and her, Arsenic said, “It’s a youngling. My youngling. Well, not really ‘mine’ but since her creator went offline and this one had nowhere else to go I … well…”_

_D-88 leaned backwards on the berth in order to see around Arsenic and look at her, “Well, smelt me and recycle me into a petro-hound! Mech or femme?”_

_Arsenic’s next words surprised her, “Mech. He’s a mechling. His designation is … Engrave. Yeah … Engrave.”_

_D-88 blinked at Arsenic skeptically, “You really need to give him a better designation than that. I mean, I’m a number and that still sounds better than ‘Engrave’.” Looking back at her, D-88 asked carefully, “He’s awfully small for a first frame, isn’t he? No way his spark will grow big enough to support a Warrior or a Miner frame.”_

_Arsenic backed up, picked her up gently in his arms, and cradled her close to his spark as he answered fiercely, “He is_ **_not_ ** _going down into the mines. If you really want to know, he’s one of the Aerial Broadcasters.”_

_D-88 nodded slowly, “Oh, that makes sense. Explains the visor too. Let me guess, optic deficient?”_

_Arsenic nodded, “Completely. They didn’t even bother to put in proper optics at all. I had to lace the back of the visor with whatever optical wiring I could scrounge.”_

_D-88 huffed, “Sadistic fraggers. Just ‘cause Aerial Broadcasters have such sound and vibration-sensitive frames doesn’t mean they should be blind. Oh well, I gotta get back, D-87 is covering my shift but he won’t be able to get away with it for much longer. Can I go now?”_

_Arsenic nodded, “Yes, just try to go easy on your pede. I still haven’t gotten a new shipment of balljoints and I really don’t want that one to give out too soon.”_

_D-88 hoisted himself off of the berth and smiled at her cheerfully before hurrying out the door, “Well, see you later, ‘Engrave’. Make sure Arsenic gives you a better designation than that, will you? Most of us don’t have one around here, so you might as well make up for it by having an awesome designation, right? Bye!”_

_Once D-88 was gone, Arsenic sighed and held her tighter, “What did I just do?”_

**End of Flashback.**

As it turned out, he had most likely saved her spark. With word spreading that Arsenic had a little Aerial Broadcaster mechling living in the medbay, no one so much as raised an optic ridge at her size, mysterious origins, or total silence.

Aerial Broadcasters were known as the “Seekers of Kaon” because they were so xenophobic of other frame-types, thus why no one could remember meeting her creator. Because Broadcasters spent so much time sorting through sound data, they often went for vorns at a time not saying a word, thus her total silence. Aerial Broadcaster’s were known for tiny, highly acrobatic alt modes, thus her small, almost feminine size.

When she had finally been upgraded into a slender adult Aerial Broadcaster mech frame, Arsenic had sealed the final piece of her disguise. Using his laser scalpel and whatever spare supplies he’d managed to barter for, he had built her a way to remain completely hidden from any mech or femme on Cybertron that might still be hunting for the little noble-sparked femling abandoned in Kaon so many vorns ago.

After all, if you were looking for a long-lost blue-opticed femme, you certainly didn’t pay any attention to a low-profile mute Aerial Broadcaster mech. Especially when everyone in the neighborhood knew that the mech had been built without conventional optical relay centers or even optics and had to wear a face-mask of black material because of it.

The story kept her safe, but it also made her utterly alone except for Arsenic’s company. Company that would soon depart to join her mech creator if she did not succeed in her objective this cycle. Arsenic was clever and resourceful, but he was also very soft-sparked. He wouldn’t have taken her in, repaired her, and raised her if he hadn’t been anything other than hugely compassionate.

But that compassion also meant that when a mech had come into the clinic begging for him to make a call to his housing unit and care for the mech’s sparkmate, Arsenic had gone. It meant that Arsenic had repaired the sparkmate for free and then drove back to the clinic unescorted, insisting that the grateful mech stay with his recovering mate.

It meant that when, while driving home, a miners’ quarrel had devolved into a battle, he had thrown himself into the crossfire to protect a downed mech, getting shot in his main pump in doing so. The sight of the only medic in Kaon willing to work on the lowest level mechs for free dropping to the ground with a scream of agony had stopped the fight instantly and Arsenic had immediately been carried home by the frantic mechs.

But their concern couldn’t reverse what had happened. Or help fix it. Only another medic could and other medics required compensation for their services. Especially when main pumps were so hard to replace and it was so expensive to buy a replacement pump. No, concern couldn’t help and an Aerial Broadcaster was only paid just enough to buy an energon ration each cycle. Arsenic had been surviving on his secondary pump, able to remain stable so long as he didn’t exert himself much and didn’t become distressed, but it wouldn’t last. Exertion and stress were two major requirements for living in Kaon’s dark underworld.

If she was to have any chance of saving his spark, she needed to earn lots of credits in a very, very short time. She had managed to secure an appointment with a higher class medic in the nearby city of Polyhex, but if she couldn’t earn enough credits for both the public transport journey there and the surgery in time, they would no doubt give the appointment slot to someone else who could actually pay. She had two orns to earn the credits, or Arsenic was doomed.

Thus, the tunnel, the guards, and the scream of the crowd getting steadily closer with each agonizingly slow step. There was only one place where she could earn enough credits in the timespan afforded her. Kaon’s Gladiatorial Ring. As they reached the entrance to the ring and came to a stop, listening to the fight just before hers rage on, her processor pulled up the memory of her first victory, the cycle in which she had killed a mech for credits for the first time.

**Flashback: Kaon, Gladiatorial Winnings Booth,**

_She stood in front of the Betting-Master, servo held out silently for her payment. She noticed that the servo she held out was still coated in the energon of her fallen opponent and internally blinked when she realized that instead of feeling revolted, she felt nothing. Her spark was numb, her frame was sore, and aside from the painful scratches she had received, she felt nothing in regards to what had just happened._

_The Betting-Master slapped a few credits onto her servo and she stared at the tiny amount incredulously. True, it was more than she had ever held in her life-cycle before and more than enough to supply an Aerial Broadcaster with steady energon supplies for at least a metacycle, but it wasn’t anywhere near enough._

_Looking back up at the Betting-Master, she angrily triggered the monotone synthesizer installed in her mask that spoke any words she typed into the mask’s internal interface, “Amount: Too small. Winnings on board: 15000 credits. This amount: Only 750 credits.”_

_The Betting-Master sneered at her, “Seriously? Everyone knows one-timers don’t get the full cut! You have to officially join the Ring if you want to even get the Rookie percentage!”_

_She dipped her helm as she subspaced the credits she had gotten. She didn’t have near enough and repeating the process of earning five percent of the winnings would not get her enough credits in time. Her spark briefly fluttered as she considered her options. Arsenic hated the Ring, even if he understood that it was a necessary outlet for violence. If he ever found out she had joined the Ring …_

_She straightened as a cold realization hit her. If she didn’t get enough credits within the next two orns to pay for a replacement surgery on Arsenic’s main pump, he wouldn’t live long enough to find out. It was doubtful that he would even last the two orns to the appointment as it was, she had no room for hesitation._

_Striding forward, she grabbed the Betting-Master’s shoulder strut as he turned away, preventing him from leaving, “Joining the Ring: Operation requirements?”_

_The Betting-Master’s helm whipped around to stare at her eagerly, “You saying you want to join?” A swift nod had the mech grinning crazily and turning around to slap her back struts happily, “That’s the spirit, mech! We’ve never had an Aerial Broadcaster fight in the Ring as an official battler before! You’ll be a sensation! You’ll need a new Designation though … everyone takes new ones when they join up…”_

_He suddenly rubbed his servos together and motioned her to follow him, “I got the perfect one! Just come this way and we’ll get you all set up!”_

_She followed him cautiously, “New Designation: What is it?”_

_The Betting-Master looked over his shoulder strut and grinned at her, “We’ll name you after your caste’s function! It will be the embodiment of a battling Aerial Broadcaster! The crowd will love it!”_

**End of Flashback.**

And love it they did. With her new designation as a sort of twisted badge of honor, she had climbed the Gladiatorial ranks with a terrifying speed, striving to earn more credits, always more credits. She almost had enough. She would have enough credits for Arsenic’s operation in three more cycles on a regular gladiator’s percentage cut.

The problem? The appointment was in two cycles and it was a cycle-long trip on a public transport to get to Polyhex from Kaon. She was out of time. Outside, the thunder of the crowd shook her to her wiring as the announcer declared what was happening for any who might have somehow missed it, “And the Terrible Duo take another victory as Sunstreaker crushes their last opponent’s spark in his bare servo! That’ll remind all of the other Gladiators here to never use a drill-bit on Sunstreaker’s paint job, eh, mechs and femmes? Let’s hear it for the Terrible Duo from Iacon’s Ring!”

She took a deep vent of air as inconspicuously as she could, trying to get her spark to settle in its scarred chamber. This was it, her fight was next. Her last chance was here. _Only three breems. Just survive three breems and the fight will be stopped. Three breems and you can take the credits and go home. You’ll be able to save Arsenic._

The Terrible Duo must have left the Ring at last because the Announcer was calling out, “And now, mechs and femmes, a fight of particular note has been unexpectedly added to the roster this cycle! As we all know, our Champion has been a little … deprived of challenges these past few metacycles. But **this** cycle, mechs and femmes, we have a voluntary challenger! That’s right! One of our newest, deadliest mechs has decided to test our Champion’s metal in a one on one Offlining Match!” _What? No!_

Her spark surged wildly in its chamber, she hadn’t agreed to a Offlining Match! She’d agreed to a Timed Match! She only needed to survive three breems despite injuries and then she would be free to leave! Behind her mask, her optics narrowed into hateful slits as she realized that the Betting-Master had lied to her in order to get a more interesting fight … and there was nothing she could do but go along with it.

As the gate to the tunnel rolled slowly up into its housing, she shifted her stance and readied her processor as much as possible. The entire situation had just taken on a much more desperate air. Only winners got any credits, losers just got smelted for parts. If she was to save Arsenic, save the only family she had left, she would need to do the impossible.

She would need to defeat the Champion of Kaon.

Light poured into the tunnel exit as the gate settled firmly into its housing, leaving nothing between her and the certain doom she had to somehow overcome. The two guards remained hidden in the shadows, snickering quietly as the Announcer called out gleefully, “At the north entrance, standing tall and deadly as an acid hurricane, I give you the Undefeated! The Terrifying! The Savage Champion of Kaon! **Megatron**!”

She had thought the crowd could not scream any louder without destroying their vocalizers from the strain. She was wrong and winced as the noise became a physical presence on her sensory grid. _Now it’s my turn._ Shaking off the pain of the noise, she stepped out of the tunnel shadows and into the light just as the Announcer called, “At the south entrance, I give you our challenger! That’s right, mechs and femmes! Facing off against Megatron is the Silent! The Deadly! **Soundwave**!”

The crowd roared, already baying for energon as Megatron strode further into the Ring, his frame fluid with confident arrogance. Soundwave stared at her opponent expressionlessly as she slowly took the required three steps forward so that the gate could close behind her. _Is that…?_

The two slowly started to circle each other, making sure to stay nearly on opposite sides of the Ring as the gates took their time rolling shut. Soundwave’s processor raced, trying to figure out whether or not to trust her own senses. Her opponent’s optics narrowed then suddenly widened as he recognized her, confirming what her facial recognition programs told her. _D-16._

The irony registered as humorous to some sick part of her processor as the rest of her mind scrambled to pick an appropriate response to the new information. This was D-16, one of the miners to which she delivered shipment orders every work shift. D-16, the only mech to ever offer to take her to the local Pub for a high grade at the end of every metacycle despite her constant refusals.

D-16, the mech who had run into the clinic two orns ago, his upper frame and arms coated in spilled energon as he carried Arsenic over to the nearest medical berth with a punctured main pump after the medic had attempted to help someone caught in the crossfire of a fight that **D-16** had started.

Suddenly, her fear of facing the “Champion of Kaon” was swept away by rage at seeing the mech at fault for all of her troubles. Her back struts went rigid and she stopped circling, arms held loose by her sides, suddenly oblivious to the rumble of the eager crowd or the whine of the gates as they slid back down and cut off her escape route.She was oblivious to anything, whether it be sight, sound, or smell, except the sight of the mech who was responsible for her being here.

She was going to make him **pay**.

_Five kliks till the gates fully close. Three, two, one._ Booming over the sound of the crowd, a loud buzz thundered through the arena and Soundwave launched herself forward like a pressure-loaded spring. Her retractable claws snapped free of their sheaths in her fingertips and her frame bent low to the ground, making her profile even smaller and harder to hit as her opponent recovered from his shock of recognition and opened fire on her with his newly installed Fusion Cannon.

Soundwave’s rage exploded as she dodged the shots by swerving from side to side fractionally, the heat of the plasma whipping past her holding no comparison to her own ire.

Arsenic had installed that cannon for him so that D-16 could more safely blast away unnecessary metal to get to the coveted ore he mined and now the glitch had the gall to use it against her? With a snarl that didn’t make it past her mask, Soundwave came to an abrupt stop mere centimeters away from “Megatron”, legs coiled tensely underneath her as she raked her left claws across Megatron’s right hip-joint.

As she sprang back lightly, she felt a flash of feral satisfaction at Megatron’s pained growl. The armor on that joint was weak and the mechanics underneath still sensitive because of an mining accident he had gotten involved in. As Megatron turned to bring his fusion cannon to bear on her again, one of Soundwave’s special data cables unsubspaced and slithered across the short distance between them, knocking the arm holding the Fusion Cannon to one side while she stepped into range and slashed at his weakened hip-joint again.

Megatron stumbled backwards with a roar of pain, his optics blazing with fury and surprise at her swift, calculated attacks. Soundwave did not follow his retreat, she merely slid into a loose, unassuming stance, waiting for him to make a move.

The next few breems were a blur of motion, anger, and violence as both combatants sought to gain an advantage. At some point in the fight, Soundwave wasn’t sure when, she abandoned the speeding in-and-out approach she had first used in favor of a special technique she had developed in her spare time. While Megatron was a roaring whirlwind of cannon-fire, kicks, and punches, she was a silent ghost, always moving to the side at the last moment and never expending any more energy than necessary.

A glancing blow screeched off of her left gauntlet, sending sparks into the air as she swiftly sidestepped the follow-through punch intended to dent her abdominal plating and throw her off-balance. Soundwave’s data-cables shot out, snatching at Megatron’s pedes in his momentary unbalanced state. Her mask canceled the sound of her grunt as Megatron twisted around and caught the cables before they could bring him down.

Megatron snarled as he jerked the cables hard, dragging Soundwave off-balance before she could compensate. Static exploded across her vision as Megatron’s fisted servo collided solidly with her mask for the first time in the fight. The vibrations sent through her sensor grid from the impact did more damage than the blow itself and Soundwave found herself scrambling to regain her senses and think past the sudden buzzing in her helm.

Weight slammed down onto her abdominal plating and Soundwave’s gaze snapped clear in time to see that Megatron had thrown her to the ground and was now straddling her frame to prevent her escape. His faceplates twisted into a feral expression as he pulled back his right arm and took aim with his fusion cannon.

At that close of range, Soundwave knew immediately that taking a shot from the cannon would be fatal. Strangely enough, time seemed to slow down for Soundwave, enabling her to watch the slow build-up of energy in the fusion cannon’s barrel and for her to glance at her internal chronometer in an effort to see whether time had really slowed or not.

_Three … breems?_ Soundwave felt like laughing hysterically for a nano-klik as she realized that she had done the impossible. She had survived for three breems in the Ring against the Champion of Kaon. Even wounded him in several painful places too.

The cannon was almost fully powered up and Soundwave felt her cables go slack in defeat. Her limbs were pinned, her data cables still imprisoned in Megatron’s left servo, and there was no possible way that she could throw Megatron off with her smaller frame. This was the end. Her optics drifted shut, unwilling to see her demise as she acknowledged one numbing fact. She was going to offline.

An image flashed to the forefront of her processor at the thought of offlining. _Offline … Arsenic. Arsenic!_ Soundwave’s optics snapped back open as she suddenly remembered why she was in the Ring battling the Champion in the first place. She was here to save Arsenic. Arsenic needed her. She needed to save her only living family … she needed to fight!

Her processor shifted into even higher speeds as a thousand impressions and ideas flooded her processor. She needed to survive, but she couldn’t physically do anything. She was trapped. She was … she was Soundwave. _“Just one little word…”_ Arsenic’s vorns old plea drifted through her processor and with a sudden surge of determination, Soundwave opened her mouth.

Her creator’s words, the ones that had kept her silent for so long, flashed briefly into her thoughts before vanishing again as Soundwave slammed her vocalizer’s volume to maximum and activated all of the external speakers housed in her body for broadcasting announcements into the mines. _I am not a youngling anymore … I am Soundwave!_

Her scream ripped out of her long dormant vocalizer, its rough sound amplified literally over a thousand times through her speakers and mask to the point where it became a physical presence. A weapon born of sheer sound.

The noise of the crowd was smothered under the concussive blast that emerged from her being, sending Megatron launching violently off of her frame and halfway across the Ring, his thick frontal armor denting into wave-like patterns such was the sheer strength of her scream.

Soundwave slowly lurched to her pedes, her frame throbbing from the many glancing blows she had received on top of the large dent made by Megatron slamming her into the ground and holding her down. Her vocalizer buzzed painfully in her neck, temporarily overloaded by the sudden, full volume exertion. Several meters across from her, Megatron staggered back to his pedes, optics round and dazed with shock.

All around them was a heavy, incredulous silence only punctured by the rasps of the two combatants’ cooling systems straining to compensate for the exertion. Kliks passed and still no one else made a sound. Even the Announcer appeared to be stilling his vents in anticipation. Soundwave ignored them all as she slowly straightened her posture, never taking her optics off of Megatron, her frame speaking for her defiantly. She wasn’t beaten yet. Not yet, not ever.

Megatron’s optics cleared of their dazed expression and he stared at her strangely, it was as if he didn’t know what to think of the Aerial Broadcaster standing before him anymore. His fusion cannon whined briefly, a glow forming in its barrel and Soundwave readied herself wearily for the next round of combat.

Abruptly, the whine died away and Megatron nodded to her stiffly before settling into a low combat stance instead of firing. Soundwave stared at him, not comprehending his actions. He had relied on his fusion cannon for almost every match she had recorded and analyzed. He had shown favor for it in their own battle. Why wasn’t he taking a shot at her while her equilibrium was off? Was he … waiting for her to recover?

The crowd was beginning to stir again, a low murmur sweeping unanimously through the audience as they all wondered the same thing. What was the Champion doing?

From behind her mask, Soundwave studied Megatron’s expression intently, watching his every move and the position of his damaged frame. Despite the mask concealing her faceplates entirely, he somehow managed to lock gazes with her and in that instant, Soundwave understood. He was giving her a chance. For Arsenic’s sake, he was going to give her one chance to recover herself before resuming the fight.

For a klik, Soundwave felt her spark stop in its chamber and her hatred of D-16, no, **Megatron** lessen a little bit. Slowly, Soundwave dipped her helm and bowed fractionally, signaling her comprehension of his actions. Then she slid into a defensive stance, and the fight resumed.

Vorns afterward, all of Kaon and even several surrounding City-States would remember that fight vividly. Those who had been in the stadium seats at the time reveling in retelling the fierce clash of wills that had carried on for a staggering three joors of combat. It broke all of the records for the longest fight in any Gladiatorial Ring, a feat made all the more astounding considering who the fighters were. One, a recently joined Aerial Broadcaster with no past and only a just developing reputation. The other, the undefeated Champion of Kaon himself.

Again and again they met in the Ring, melding into a clanging, shrieking, whirling blur of scuffed silver and dull navy armor before suddenly breaking apart and circling the Ring warily, searching for a weakness to exploit in the other. The normal closing time for the Ring came and went, yet no one moved from their seats. The Announcer fell silent, too busy watching every nano-klik of the battle to bother commenting as he usually did.

The silence that permeated the audience was heavy and unrelenting, no sound was heard in the energon-stained Ring except for the repeated clash of metal against metal and the whine of the combatants’ beleaguered systems begging for rest.

Soundwave’s optics struggled to focus past the repeated pings warning her of low energon. Her cooling systems added to the red messages popping up on her HUD, telling her yet again of an impending failure should she not stop overexerting her frame. Her cooling systems simply could not dissipate the heat build-up. Soundwave ignored the messages, she couldn’t stop. Not yet. Not when the credits she needed for Arsenic were So. Close.

_Just a little longer. Just a little more._ Megatron, she noted dully, was looking just as tired as she felt, his large frame visibly shaking under the efforts of his cooling systems, his red optics flickering occasionally from an increasing lack of fuel to sustain his strenuous activity. Through her mask, their gazes again seemed to lock, and on that silent, unspoken signal, they lunged at each other.

Soundwave dodged, swerved, and deflected, her right leg strut aching each time she put weight on it. Megatron had landed a hard kick on it earlier in the fight and with each unsuccessful clash and jolting dodge, it hurt more persistently. Ignoring her leg strut, Soundwave’s optics swept up and down Megatron’s churning frame desperately, _he has to have a weak spot! He has to!_

As she barely deflected another fatally powerful blow aimed at her neck cables, she spotted it, a weak point. Her scream from before had warped Megatron’s frontal armor and now, after constant motion and exertion of its owner, a part of it had warped to the point of exposing a vital energon line leading to Megatron’s main pump. _There!_

Ducking under his high roundhouse kick, Soundwave lunged forward, claws of her right servo outstretched to slice through the line and end the fight at last. Her claws dipped into the hole in the warped armor and out of the corner of her optic, she saw Megatron’s expression shift to one of horror and disbelief, he had spotted his weak point too late.

Just as her claws were entering the hole, just as victory and Arsenic’s salvation was finally in sight, a ping of breaking metal echoed through her audio receptors. _Huh?_ The world seemed to freeze again, only this time, it also robbed Soundwave of the ability to react to what was happening. Slowly, agonizingly, Soundwave felt her center of gravity plunge downward, forcing her claws to slide back out of Megatron’s weak point with nothing more than a screech of metal and a few feeble sparks as she fell toward him and down. _What?_

A new message lit up her HUD and Soundwave read it numbly. Her right leg strut, the one that had taken damage, the one that had hurt so badly a moment ago, the one she had led her lunge with … had snapped. _No…_ Internally, Soundwave struggled to do something, anything, to halt her fall. She had been so close! So close! Pain spread slowly out from the area of her broken leg strut, only adding to the agony in her spark as she continued to fall forward, the knowledge that she had failed stabbing into her very core.

The ground was rushing up to meet her faceplate, she would land on her front and a part of her processor informed her that it would be the work of a moment for Megatron to offline her in that vulnerable state. All he had to do, should he feel like it, was to step on her back and lean all of his weight forward. The pressure would crush her spark slowly and painfully, a sure way to gain the favor of the energon-thirsty crowd. _No pain can compare to this,_ she thought despairingly, _no pain can compare to failure like this._

She couldn’t even use her vocalizer as a last attempt at attack. Her earlier scream had temporarily overloaded her vocalizer, rendering her mute … and utterly defenseless.

Her processor pounded over and over with the single thought of how she had failed. Arsenic was going to offline. She had risked the Ring for nothing. Her optics closed again, she didn’t have the willpower to keep them open as she waited for her frame to hit the ground and for her opponent to claim his victory … and her spark.

Kliks crawled by and, slowly, a sensation broke through her despairing numbness. It wasn’t the sensation of her frame crashing to the ground, nor was it the sensation of her spark being ripped from its chamber and extinguished. It was the sensation of … servos wrapped gently underneath her arms?

Soundwave hesitantly opened her optics again. The ground wasn’t far away from her faceplate, by all rights she should already be sprawled out helplessly on the floor of the Ring. But she wasn’t. Slowly, she craned her helm upward, blinking as her vision met a mass of battered, grime covered silver armor. Tilting her helm further backward, she found herself staring into the gaze of Megatron.

The mech’s optics shone with an strangely intent gleam as he slowly lifted Soundwave back to her pedes, his energon-stained servos supporting her weight without hesitation. Since it was easily apparent that she was too short to place her arm around his shoulder, he wordlessly shifted one of her arms to drape over crook of his left elbow joint instead, his left arm wrapping around the back of her waist to hold her up.

Straightening as much as he could while supporting her, Megatron looked up and around at the dumbfounded crowd, his expression suddenly becoming sharp and defiant, “I will not offline this mech!”

His words sparked a swelling thunder of surprised shouts before Megatron cut them off with another cold bellow, “I exercise my right as Champion to spare a worthy opponent! This one will live!”

The Announcer, for once breaking the unspoken rule of never conversing with a gladiator in the Ring, called over the loud-speaker system, “You realize, Champion, that this requires you to cede all winnings to the spared opponent, right? It is a loss to you in everything but name!”

Soundwave felt her spark flutter uneasily in her chest plates. She’d seen the odds for the fight. Because of the sheer number of bets, the winnings would be massive for Megatron. For her, had she won, the amount would have been at least double that amount because of how high the odds were stacked against her. No Kaonian mech with a functioning self preservation code would willingly cede those kind of funds for the sake of sparing an opponent in the Ring.

Megatron’s next words cut off her line of thought and left her even more shellshocked than before, “Than cede the winnings I shall! Or do I not have the right to spare an worthy opponent once every five vorns in the Ring as dictated by the Betting-Masters’ Council? **Well**?” The last word contained a deadly edge that clearly told everyone present that should his right to spare her be contested, he would fight for it.

For a moment there was a confused silence in the Ring. Then, building like an oncoming storm, the cheers started. Within breems, every mech and femme in the audience stands was on their pedes, bellowing and cheering their favor for Megatron’s act of mercy. For once, the awe of seeing someone worthy of going pede-to-pede with Megatron and living overshadowing their lust for spilled life-fuels.

With a satisfied nod, Megatron turned and began half-carrying, half-dragging, Soundwave out of the Ring. Soundwave desperately scrambled together what processor power she could and used it to reach out and touch Megatron’s chest plates, caressing the edge of the hole that she had planned to use to offline the mech now sparing her spark and helping her off of the field. _Why? Why are you doing this?_

Megatron glanced down when he felt Soundwave’s questioning caress, his expression shifting to one of contemplation, “Why did I spare you?” He guessed accurately. Soundwave nodded as she limped shakily through the exit of the Ring, Megatron supporting her the entire way.

The imposing miner-come-gladiator seeming to think about the question for a few kliks before saying softly, “Because your motive for fighting was worth far more than mine. You fought for it and not only were you willing to offline for it … you were willing to survive for it.”

Looking down at her, he said seriously, “That is something I have never before seen inside or outside the Ring.” Soundwave just stared at him. Even if her vocalizer had been in working order at that moment, she didn’t think she could have said anything anyway. It was just … too surprising. Something in her spark throbbed and keened longingly as Megatron looked away and refocused his attention on the path in front of them, only adding to her confusion about Megatron.

Refusing to glance at her again, Megatron murmured softly, “I will help you transport Arsenic to the Polyhex clinic. There should be enough left over from the winnings of this match to pay for your leg strut as well as the surgery. You shouldn’t have to lose more than a cycle or two of work.”

Soundwave was barely aware that she was nodding in reply, too many emotions were swirling through her to really be cognizant of what was going on around her anymore. Two thoughts fought for dominance in her processor, each one holding measures of relief, awe, confusion, and deep humility.

One thought was that Arsenic was safe. She had the credits to pay for his surgery. He would be repaired, he would live. The second, was the unnerving realization that it was not her who had ultimately saved Arsenic’s life. It was the mech currently helping her out of the Gladiatorial Grounds. The mech who had ceded the winnings to her and not only saved Arsenic’s spark, but spared her own when he had absolutely no reason to do so.

In that moment, Soundwave realized that she was indebted to Megatron. Upon his shoulders rested not one, but two lives that would survive because of his mercy. Arsenic would not be able to repay such a debt, if everything turned out according to her plans, he would never even know that she had set pede in the Ring.

But Soundwave, Soundwave had a debt to repay. She didn’t know how or when that debt would be fulfilled, but until that cycle came, Soundwave vowed that she would follow the mech named Megatron to the ends of Cybertron … and maybe even beyond.

It wasn’t until later, after she had fallen in love with and bonded to the mech who had spared her spark, that she realized just how literal her internal vow was. After all, what was a sparkmate who did not follow her other half? Even when that path led her into war, exile, … and eventually, vorns and vorns later, a fateful little planet called Earth.


	6. The Recording

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A look at the recording Mirage and Jazz retrieved during the rescue mission of chapters 39 to 41 and the thoughts of Ratchet as he watches it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To be 100% honest I've forgotten what chapter this takes place alongside. But as long as you've read up to chapter 46 then you're good.

Ratchet watched grimly as the holo-image hovering over the center of the table finally shifted from complete blackness to show Starwish sitting in a circle of white light, looking around with a frown. _Where is she? She doesn’t appear to be damaged, but that circle she’s sitting in clearly isn’t natural light, it has no visible source._ Starwish’s frown morphed into a shriek of shock as her own voice pierced the darkness, “You might want to reconsider that plan, **Starscream**. Captured does not necessarily mean declawed … and I can assure you, this ‘pet’ can still **bite**.”

The darkness had dissolved during the course of the words and suddenly there was a long hallway with five Decepticons. One of the Decepticons was Starscream himself .. and standing across from him was a second Starwish, standing in a shaky defensive stance while Starscream clutched at his neck cabling and wheezed. _She attacked Starscream? While she was a prisoner?_ That appeared to be the case, judging by how the other Decepticons were reacting with either amusement, shock, or both.

Ratchet’s processor blanked briefly, the first Starwish inadvertently voicing the thoughts of everyone in the meeting, “H-how?” _Two Starwish’s … the change in scenario … it …_ The report Hardwire had given clicked in Ratchet’s processor while the first Starwish tried to make contact with the apparitions and then panicked when she couldn’t, _The Cortical Psychic Patch! This is a recording of its use! We are witnessing events that took place in her processor!_

A deep voice, chillingly blank and apathetic as well as Starwish’s shrill recorded scream of shock brought Ratchet’s main focus back to the video, “So. Starscream is indeed the reason for the guards’ tardiness.” Ratchet felt his spark slam in its chamber and his jaw gears tighten at the unmistakable voice.

The first, and now only, Starwish took a step back with a frightened squeak that made Ratchet’s protective side snarl angrily, “Shockwave?” She sounded confused, terrified, and helpless.

Shockwave’s single optic looked down at her expressionlessly, “Interesting. You are the first subject to be aware of my presence during a connection of this nature. Perhaps it is an effect of the completed product compared to the prototype.”

Ironhide’s engine was growling loudly and Ratchet was idly aware of the building tension in the room because of suppressed rage. His included. _Like she’s not even a living being. Just another statistic to his calculations. That emotionless, sadistic, overbearing-_

The darkness that had returned to Starwish’s surroundings briefly hissed and mumbled with muted voices and Ratchet blinked in thought briefly, _the confrontation from earlier faded so quickly, now background noise … memories. The Cortical Psychic Patch can’t pick up her direct thoughts, it must only be able to pick up triggered memory files and communication directed intentionally at Shockwave._

Starwish stopped looking around and faced Shockwave again, her voice shaking as she asked, “Where am I? Where are … we?” _Of course she doesn’t know, this is an invention of which the Autobots never even heard rumors. Still, communicating with Shockwave is not the best idea. Is this the start of what caused her stasis lock? Too much interaction over the interface?_

Shockwave appeared to be looking around at his black surroundings as he deigned to answer Starwish, “We are within the depths of your subconscious processor. I have been given permission by Lord Megatron to utilize this method of searching in order to uncover the identity of the mech who modified your processor and frame.”

Ratchet’s servos fisted tightly, Prowl’s wings went near vertical with a quivering jolt, and Jazz hissed icily as they all came to the same conclusion as to why Shockwave was searching for the original modifier. _He wants to learn how to do it himself! Programs imbedded in core coding that cannot be overridden and hold untold information or unlimited control over the bot in which it is placed? Megatron would adore having such a tool with which to brand his soldiers. Fragging, pit-spawned, underwired-!_

Surprisingly, Starwish made no frantic denials, nor did she try to run away or cry. She just stood there, a look of intense … concentration on her faceplates. _The faceplates of the projection of her consciousness,_ Ratchet corrected himself internally. Then Ratchet’s frown deepened, _Is she trying to plan something? Or-_ The surroundings in the video changed abruptly as Starwish apparently triggered a memory file.

A medbay made of Altihex’s trademark black/purple metal unfurled around Starwish and Shockwave, all attention quickly being drawn by a short Ground-bound red mech who was frantically pressing buttons on a console and hissing to himself, “Doesn’t this thing have a fast forward button? Or better yet, erase?”

Shockwave took a sharp step back, perhaps surprised at the sudden triggering of the memory file, but Ratchet was too busy staring in confused horror at what appeared to be Starscream and Megatron lying side by side on separate berths, a strange purple and black cord stretching across the distance between them. _Is that-? It can’t be the real Megatron and Starscream can it? When could she have seen that?_

Before Ratchet could get a closer look at the memory file, it vanished, leaving Starwish and Shockwave surrounded by darkness again as she whirled and shouted, “You’re using the Cortical Psychic Patch! That’s how you’re in my mind!” _How does she know that? How did she figure that out? Hardwire only knew of it because he overheard Shockwave while Starwish was unconscious!_

Shockwave tensed in the holo-image and drew himself up to his full height, towering over Starwish’s much smaller frame as he practically snarled out questions disgustingly similar to Ratchet’s own, “How did you know of that project? What was that memory file? I would know if Knockout had attempted to use my invention on Lord Megatron and Starscream. That event does not exist. Explain yourself!”

The blackness flashed and sputtered with a thousand different colors, shapes, and sounds all at once. _Mass memory review, she’s trying to remember the answer._ Judging by Shockwave’s armor flare, the memory files must have had sensations for the other senses as well.

Instead of shrinking back from Shockwave, Starwish lifted her chin and hissed with defiance that was obviously shaky but awing in the fact that it was **there** , “You wouldn’t believe me and I don’t want to tell.” _So she knows what that was then? Or is she bluffing?_

Shockwave took a few steps toward her, his servos sliding into a menacing half-fisted position, Shockwave’s intimidating body posture making Ironhide growl at the recording hatefully. Shockwave rumbled dangerously at Starwish, “You will give me the data I require, femme. How did you know of my invention? What was that memory file?” Ratchet hissed faintly at hearing his own questions come yet again from the vocalizer of a logic-ruled monster, his engine beginning to rumble the same frustrated pitch as Ironhide’s, Jazz’s, and Ultra Magnus’s as they all fought the urge to **do** something when what they were witnessing was a only past event that couldn’t be changed.

Shockwave stopped his advance, helm tilting briefly to one side in a manner that Ratchet instinctively knew did not bode well for Starwish, “Your programmer.” _Oh no. If he believes that, he’ll rip her processor apart to get that data._ Shockwave’s armor flared to its maximum, bristling in a show that would have meant pure rage from anyone else. As it was, Ratchet could only squirm at the sick feeling in his tanks as he realized it must mean something even worse for Starwish because of Shockwave’s lack of emotional coding.

Shockwave started questioning again, his tone iron-clad and dangerous, “Who is your programmer? The one who modified your frame and processor, what is his identity?”

Starwish backed away in fear and Ratchet absently registered that the way the blackness that made up her mind-scape hissed like static was a bad sign, “I-I don’t know!”

Shockwave followed her retreat, refusing to give her the space necessary to collect herself, his voice increasing in volume and intensity, “That is illogical. The modifications are extensive and would have taken too much time to safely keep you in stasis for the duration of the operation! **Who built you**?”

The blackness morphed into the abandoned base in which Ratchet and the others had first discovered her and Ultra Magnus made a faint choking noise at the sight of the memory Starwish cringing and screaming in terror at her morbid, unfamiliar surroundings. _Is that really all she remembers about her modification? Waking up … there? The modification was recent then? Was the energy surge that led us there a sign of the programmer abandoning them there?_

Shockwave was looking around attentively, “I am aware of this location. It was abandoned for tactical purposes. It is far from the appropriate location to perform a frame or processor operation. Did your modifier leave you here? For what purpose?”

Ironhide hissed darkly, “Sick fragger, I should-”

Ironhide cut himself off as Starwish started to reply, her frame shaking so badly Ratchet wondered how she was even standing, “I don’t know.” Her voice sounded horribly blank, her emotional state so stressed her vocalizer couldn’t even implant a plaintive note to her words. Ratchet heard the plea of ignorance anyway and his spark twisted in its casing because of it. He dimly wondered how Ultra Magnus could even remain seated and seemingly calm except for his growling engine when he was witnessing such pain being inflicted upon his charge.

Shockwave was facing Starwish again, “You must know. There is no sign of a memory purge in your processor or of a memory block within your code. Show me the memory of your modifier!” _Leave her alone, you sick slag-heap!_ Ratchet felt the words lodge in his vocalizer, unable to speak past the helpless anger burning within at the recording of an unchangeable event.

His anger was briefly forgotten when he saw that the recording of Starwish wasn’t cringing away or crying out in fear. Instead, she had gone utterly still, her helm bowing so low that her chin touched her chest armor and Ratchet could no longer see her expression clearly. Her mental projection started venting heavily, her servos shaking as the blackness began to change.

For a moment, Ratchet wondered if the memory Shockwave was insisting upon was finally coming to the fore, but then the blackness became a shade of red that somehow conveyed malevolence even though Ratchet was not the one standing inside it, “I said. I. Don’t. Know.”

The icy words, tight and sharp as a medical scalpel cut the heavy silence in the recording and it took a moment for Ratchet to realize that it was Starwish speaking. He had only ever heard Starwish’s voice filled with emotion and subtle inflections that made it almost musical, no matter the emotion currently coating it. There was no musical lilt in those five simple words. There was only a sharp edge of danger that he’d never even contemplated could come from the small femling.

Raising her helm, Starwish took a step toward Shockwave, her servos fisting tightly as she bit out slowly, “I don’t know how I got here or why I was taken from my home,” Ratchet’s vents stuttered when the red backdrop in the recording suddenly became an unmistakably alien neighborhood, filled with strange … organic beings laughing and babbling.

A part of his processor pointed out that the focus of the memory seemed to be on one organic in particular, a femme-like creature with golden wispy helm coverings and mismatched optics, before Starwish resumed speaking and the scene changed again, “I don’t know how I transformed,” the scene of her in the abandoned base flashed briefly into existence before vanishing under the press of hissing red, “I don’t even know what I am …” Despite his growing trepidation and confusion, Ratchet’s spark ached at the brokenness of those words.

Then his spark chilled at the sheer venom in Starwish’s, -sweet, shy, unassuming little Starwish’s - voice, “And you have the _nerve_ to come in here and demand I bare my soul to you. I. Don’t. Have. The. Answers.” The hissing increased and the red began to roll and move as if it was alive as Starwish drew herself to her full height and glared at Shockwave with a power in her optics that Ratchet hadn’t ever believed she possessed.

Ratchet felt his spark thud and his throat-tubing tighten as the recording of Shockwave murmured Ratchet’s own realization, “This is not how a Cybertronian mind works…” Looking down at her, Shockwave asked the question that Ratchet would later be ashamed to admit was dancing through his own mind, “What are you?”

The red coiled inward like a imploding star before exploding as Starwish screamed agonizedly, “I don’t **know**!”

Just like that, Ratchet and everyone else in the conference room went wide opticed at the plethora of memories that suddenly flooded across the holo-projection. Memories of Algol, the Autobots, **Cybertron** rolled away at dizzying speed, making way for the sudden and total shift in Starwish’s mind-scape. A carpet of swaying green blades of organic material formed and stretched to a horizon that was suddenly blue and exotically starless. Amorphous blobs of white, the kind of which Ratchet had never seen before, but dimly reminded him of mercury clouds, drifted through the blue … sky? As the blades of green bent as if under the effects of a strong breeze.

But all of that, as well as the fact that Shockwave was turning circles repeatedly in an effort to see everything, was merely useless background data to Ratchet, extraneous details that temporarily fell to the wayside under the importance of the fact that Starwish’s mental projection had changed.

She was crying, but the tears were not the tears of a cybertronian, nor did they trickle down the metal faceplate Ratchet had grown accustomed to seeing for over two orns. Wispy golden-colored strands blew over an oddly colored, impossibly soft-looking, faceplate as two mismatched optics, one blue, the other a dark brown instead of its rightful red, stared at Shockwave with a look of spark-breaking sadness yet unshakable determination. Shockwave appeared to conquer his shock enough to choke out, “This … is impossible.”

Starwish’s voice came from the organic lip-plates, cementing the fact that the impossible, unknown, illogical mental projection was indeed her as she said, “No. It isn’t.” The fluffy white things merged, darkening and growing until they looked much more like mercury clouds than before as Shockwave whirled to face Starwish. The femling in question was now standing, tall and fearless, strange organic optics blazing with inner fire as she hissed dangerously, “This is my past. These are my memories that I hold close to my soul.”

A high-pitched keening noise started up in the background of the recording, _high-velocity air currents,_ Ratchet dazedly cataloged as Starwish narrowed her optics and continued, “This is my **mind** ,” thunder roared from the recording, making Ratchet’s armor flatten a bit in startled trepidation. _No processor functions like that. I may not know anything about how the Cortical Psychic Patch operates but no processor conceivably functions like that! Not on a subconscious level! What is she doing? How?_

The tension grew to a bursting point as Starwish tilted her chin up and hissed, low and deadly, “and you are not welcome here.”

Lightning cracked across the darkened, roiling sky as Starwish screamed wildly at Shockwave, “Get. **Out**!” As if the scream was a detonator, Starwish’s mental projection suddenly reverted to being cybertronian and her surroundings exploded; images, beings, colors, sounds and probably a host of other sensory data flooding toward Shockwave in a disorientating, jumbled mass.

The holo-projection began to crackle with static, hissing and cutting out at random times as if the connection was breaking. Ratchet found himself standing, leaning over the table agitatedly as Jazz frantically worked at the controls of the projector for a few kliks before shaking his helm and whispering shakily, “Ain’t us, the recorder must have started ta overload under the pressure of … that.”

Jazz motioned to the recording as the static briefly cleared, showing Shockwave being forced backward by the overload of memory data, liquid pounding his frame as a thousand howls of rage threatened to override the recorder’s sound collection threshold. The static returned for a klik, cleared to show lightning slamming the ground and the rush of sensory data continuing unabated, then filmed over again.

Ratchet fisted his servos on the table, his processor racing so fast he knew he was coming dangerously close to crashing. _Impossible-! She shouldn’t-! That kind of memory dump-! It will destroy her processor functions!_ Something cold settled in his spark and his optics widened, _It did. This is the reason for the stasis lock. She induced a cerebral overload, forcing Shockwave to either break the connection or be destroyed along with her._

Shockwave’s voice crackled past the disjointed shrieks of noise from the memory dump, “This- not … logical! You - prevent you from - this!”

Then, without any warning, the static cleared completely, revealing Starwish facing off against Shockwave, the latter of whom was backed up against a howling chasm Ratchet took to be a representation of their separated processors. Behind her, images wavered, beings both alien and not stood defiantly behind her. It was her memories, all of them. Everything that made Starwish, Starwish was crowded behind her, an impassible wall that Shockwave could never hope to breach just by virtue of how much there was in that one section of her processor.

Starwish’s lip-plates, now metal thankfully, twisted into a cold, contemptuous sneer, “News flash, _Cyclops_. _Humans_ aren’t logical … and neither am I.” With that, Starwish lunged forward, her servos reaching out to push Shockwave-

And the recording went black, a small window opening in the center of the darkness to display the words, End of Recording: Replay?

There was a pause, during which everyone in the conference room tried to comprehend the message, then Ironhide stood up and slammed his servos hard on the table, “What. The frag. Was that?” His shaking, snarled words, filled with anger, confusion, and a touch of horror, shook everyone else from their stupors and the room exploded with noise.

Ratchet found himself joining in the shouting of denial, theories, threats against Shockwave, and general chaos. But his wild gesticulations were more to hide the shaking of his servos than to make a point and his constant shooting down of theories and his medical ranting was more to drown out the voices in his own helm than those around him.

The voices that countered every theory heard, both from Ratchet’s own vocalizer or those around him with the simple, unshakable, murmur that Starwish’s memories could not, were not, faked. The voices that said that Starwish was formerly organic … and the tiny part of his spark that whispered of how that impossible, illogical, crazy, **ridiculous** , explanation made So. Much. Sense.


	7. Confrontation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Takes place during Chapter Fifty-Four. With the recording still sitting heavy in their thoughts, Ratchet, Ironhide, Chromia, Jazz, and Prowl ask Hardwire some questions.
> 
> It doesn't go well.

Ratchet stared blankly at the datapad in his servo, rereading the same sentence on the screen for the tenth time. Shaking his helm, Ratchet growled and turned the datapad off. _Not going to get any work done like this._ Resting his helm on one servo, Ratchet closed his optics and tried for the hundredth time to resolve the issue plaguing him. The issue was, of course, the matter of his newest apprentice and her family unit.

Ever since seeing the video-file Mirage had brought back, Ratchet had been unable to decide what he truly thought about the matter. Scientifically, is sounded impossible in so many ways. Logically, he could come up with a hundred arguments against it. Yet no matter how many times he argued with himself, pulled up scans he had previously taken of her to prove to himself that she was somehow mistaken as to her own origins, there was always a little, nagging doubt in his spark that refused to be silenced.

It was, in all honesty, driving him to distraction. Every time he looked at Starwish, he wondered. Every time he checked over her work, he fought the urge to just out and rush her to the nearest berth and **keep** her there until he understood what was wrong. Shifting a bit, Ratchet rubbed his faceplates with a servo tiredly, _Impossible and yet there are others who are convinced it is the truth!_ While Ratchet wasn’t entirely certain as to the opinions of some of his other fellow viewers of the video, Ultra Magnus had briefly commed them and ordered that they were to be extra polite and to leave the matter alone when around Starwish.

Ratchet had asked Magnus’s opinion, he was the femling’s Guardian after all, and Ultra Magnus had stated that he believed in the validity of Starwish’s memories. Ratchet had nearly been shocked into a processor crash. Logical, rule-following, vaguely cynical, utterly sensible Ultra Magnus willingly believed that his precious charge was formerly organic? Believed and continued to accept her without hesitation?

_And then there’s Optimus…_ Ratchet growled to himself at that thought, throwing the servo he’d been rubbing his faceplate with into the air in exasperation. Optimus had gone to Alpha Trion, the wisest of all the Archivists and possibly the oldest mech on all of Cybertron, and returned with only the vaguest of statements for the trusted members of his command staff. The gist of the statement had been that Alpha Trion was inclined to accept Starwish’s memories as genuine, that this meant something important was going on with Starwish and her family, and to keep it strictly to themselves.

They were not to speak to any Autobot about the matter aside from those who had witnessed the video, their sparkmates, or Starwish’s family unit, barring the much-too-young-twinlings.

Ratchet’s brooding on the situation was interrupted when the door to his office slid open and Ironhide stomped in. The burly Weapons Specialist was followed by a scowling Chromia, a stoically silent Prowl, and very, very moody-looking Jazz. Straightening up a bit in his chair, Ratchet asked, “What are you all doing in here?”

Jazz settled in a corner, leaning against the wall as he cross his arms over his chest plates, “Hopin’ for answers.”

Ratchet shot Jazz a scathing look at his vague statement before shifting his gaze to Prowl as the praxian clarified, “Ironhide and Chromia were on their way here to inquire as to your opinion on Starwish’s memories. Jazz has been plagued by this same question and was asking my conclusions on it.”

Ratchet raised an optic ridge tiredly, “That led you two into my office as well as Ironhide and Chromia, how?”

Prowl’s left doorwing dipped fractionally in a praxian version of a blink, “We encountered them in the halls and agreed to accompany them here.”

Ironhide cut into the conversation, shifting his weight from pede-to-pede in a subconscious sign of tension, “Well, Ratchet? You’ve had a few cycles, what do you think about this whole mess?”

Ratchet sighed heavily and spread his servos wide in a gesture of helplessness, “It’s a mess alright. But you’re not going to get the answers from me. I … I have no idea what to think.”

Chromia made a face, “Ironhide’s told me about this … video. Any way the ‘Cons could have faked it?”

Prowl interjected, “Even more unlikely than the probabilities of the video containing nothing but the truth. What motive would the Decepticons have for orchestrating such a thing? Where would they acquire the resources? What would they gain from such an endeavor?”

Chromia rolled her optics and huffed in frustration, “I don’t know! I was just … throwing the idea out there since Starwish obviously can’t have actually been an organic once.”

* * *

Prowl stared at Chromia thoughtfully before letting his gaze drop to the floor, idly keeping track of the conversation going on around him as the majority of his focus turned inward. Ratchet, Ironhide, and Chromia continued to debate futilely about the contents of the video and the validity of its contents while Prowl merely inspected what Chromia had said earlier over and over in his processor. _“Since Starwish obviously can’t have been an organic once.”_ Chromia was so certain, they were **all** so certain, that Starwish was somehow wrong.

Yet, Ultra Magnus appeared to believe Starwish, as did Optimus because of Alpha Trion’s opinion on the matter. Alpha Trion was a learned and ancient mech who had probably read of and seen more than Prowl himself could hope to see in all of his vorns. Optimus had the Matrix of Leadership to give him guidance when matters became too overwhelming, and Ultra Magnus was hardly a fool.

Prowl felt his logic centers start to whirl uncomfortably as he began running calculations, weighing variables both known and unknown, trying to narrow down the percentage of just how impossible Starwish’s memories really were. Up until then, he’d honestly been avoiding the topic. Prowl simply had too much to do, that first cycle because of Ultra Magnus taking the rest of the cycle off to spend with his charge, and Jazz disappearing to investigate what he could. The later cycles kept him preoccupied because of the increased activity on the various warfronts. He didn’t have the time or inclination to risk a processor crash on the matter of Starwish and her family unit.

But he remembered coming into his office to see Jazz, tense and combat ready, having heard a voice without being able to identify its owner or location. Whether Jazz had been temporarily afflicted with a holographic flux or not, it didn’t really matter to Prowl. What mattered to him was that the source of Jazz’s most recent anxiety and his hearing of the “voice” was the conundrum of Starwish.

He had promised to think on it later, to try to help Jazz and his fellow Autobots who were all confounded by the video Mirage had retrieved, but only now did he have time to carry out that promise. _“Since Starwish obviously can’t have been an organic once.”_ So certain, so irrefutable, and yet…

Prowl’s optics became unfocused as he diverted more processor power to his calculations, adding in variables such as the AllSpark, energy, mass-conversion, and immoral science. He winced internally as two of his logic drives crashed, unable to work around the strain and his own emotional ties to the subject. The rest of his logic drives continued to plow away at the problem while the crashed ones rebooted and slowly resumed tackling the problem.

From an emotional and semi-logical stance, such as how most cybertronians functioned on a cycle-to-cycle basis, it really was impossible. The spark was seen as something holy, untouchable by science. But from a purely logical standpoint, one that acknowledged the existence of unknown variables, the AllSpark being a prime example of said variables, and the use of unethical spark science during times of war …

Finally, his optics refocused as his processor came to a conclusion and began to settle down from its hyper-active state. Flicking his doorwings up, he pulled his attention back to his surroundings in order to give his conclusions, only to stiffen when he realized that the office had gained one more occupant. _This … will not end well._

* * *

Hardwire frowned in confusion at the sight of Ironhide, Chromia, Jazz, and an absent-minded Prowl all standing in Ratchet’s office. He hesitated in the entrance to the office as all optics, minus Prowl’s, swung to look at him, “Uh, sorry to interrupt, Ratchet. I was just hoping to get permission to take Arcee for another walk around the base. Bulkhead’s on shift and I figured she’d like some light exercise just as much as I so…”

Ratchet started to speak when Ironhide cut him off and gestured Hardwire inside, “Get in here, Hardwire, there’s something we need your opinion on.”

Ratchet shot Ironhide a hard look, making Hardwire feel vaguely uneasy as he obediently stepped inside the office, allowing the door to slide shut behind him, “Sure, Ironhide. What is it?”

Chromia’s engine rumbled faintly, “It’s about your sister and the twinlings. Mostly Starwish though.”

Worry shot through Hardwire’s spark and he stiffened, “What about them? Are they okay? I didn’t see Starwish in the main room of the medbay-”

Ratchet held up a servo to cut him off, “They’re all fine, Starwish is just running a basic check-up on a patient for me. The matter Ironhide and Chromia are trying to bring up is … it’s about your past. All of your pasts.”

_The past?_ Hardwire shifted a bit on his pedes, “Okay…” _What’s going on that they’d be asking about our past? Oh scrap, does this mean I’m going to have to lie to them? I don’t want to do that! But if they ask about my or Starwish’s childhood…_ Hardwire vented a bit and tried to brace himself for whatever it was that had so many high-ranking Autobots worried.

Ironhide crossed his arms over his chest plating and asked bluntly, “Did you know that your siblings think they’re formerly organic and were raised on another planet?”

Hardwire felt like someone had just jerked reality out from under his pedes, _what?_ ** _What_** _?_ He quickly replayed what Ironhide had just said in order to confirm that he hadn’t misheard. He hadn’t. Hardwire felt his processor stall for a moment before panic set in, _they know, they know, they know, how-do-they-fragging-know?_ Reflexively, Hardwire made a swallowing motion, even if he didn’t have any saliva to swallow and wet his throat tubing, the nervous habit was still there.

Trying to keep his voice as steady as possible, he rasped, “W-what?” _So much for steady,_ a hysterically calm part of his mind sniggered, _but at least it was in Cyber-Standard!_

Ratchet frowned, “You didn’t know?”

Hardwire blinked hard as he struggled to not panic, not faint, and not run screaming from the room in terror all the while formulating a response, “I- It- W-where did you-?”

Jazz piped up from his corner, “Tha ‘Cons recorded what happened when Shockwave used tha Cortical Psychic Patch on Star. Mirage ripped tha video from their databanks, so tha ‘Cons won’t be seeing any o’ what’s on it but…” _Recorded … but Starwish doesn’t remember what happened during that time. What do I do?_

Slowly Hardwire asked, “The video. What- What did- What happened?”

Ratchet interjected, “Starwish forced Shockwave out of her processor by inducing a cerebral overload. In the process, it showed many of her most important memories and altered her own mental projection … and then later Jazz asked Zipline and Fast Track a few questions and…” Ratchet slowly stood up from behind his desk and leaned on it, “Hardwire, what happened to your siblings?”

Something went cold in Hardwire as he realized what Ratchet was asking. He thought Starwish was crazy, they all thought that Starwish and the twinlings were messed up in their helms. For a moment, he felt the world tilt, like he was standing on a precipice with no way to catch his balance. Then something kicked into overdrive in his mind and the world snapped back into place with a terrifying, inaudible, snap.

Straightening his posture, Hardwire said, “Show me.” Ratchet frowned and Hardwire elaborated though gritted denta, “Show me the video. Show me what you mean.”

Ratchet glanced at Jazz, the saboteur immediately shook his helm, “Tha only copy is in Prime’s vault.”

Hardwire took a deep vent to try to remain calm, or at least coherent, and asked, “Is there … is there any other way you could show me what you mean?”

Jazz didn’t move from his corner, but after a klik long pause, Jazz nodded, “Yeah, Ah can show you a short clip, tha important part at least.” Hardwire watched tensely as Jazz’s visor glowed and suddenly projected a small 3D image in the air. Had the situation not been so terrifying, Hardwire was fairly certain he would have been thrilled to learn that cybertronians could do that.

As it was, he just watched in stunned awe as Starwish engaged in a showdown with Shockwave. Her “mental projection” was a perfect replica of her old human body, her human memories unfolding briefly around her and Shockwave before it all seemed to shift and she leaped forward with a scream right before Jazz’s holographic projection shut off.

Hardwire stared at the space where it had been for several kliks, not sure what to say, but the proud thought of, _way to kick aft, sis,_ flitting briefly through his mind before he brought himself back to reality.

He released a shaky vent and mindlessly reached for a chair, _need to sit down, need to sit down, oh pit what a nightmare._ Chromia took pity on him and gently nudged a chair over to him so that he could sit down heavily. Hardwire immediately hunched over in his seat, shoulders tense, helm cradled in one servo as he tried to figure out what to say. _What do they plan to do? What does Optimus think, what-_

Ironhide’s voice cut through his thoughts accidentally, “Mechling? You okay?” Hardwire tilted his helm just enough so that he could stare at the black mech with blank optics, the capacity to form words escaping him completely for the moment. Ironhide looked at him worriedly before switching his gaze to someone else, “Ratchet, I think he’s about to glitch.”

Hardwire heard pede-steps shortly before the tingle of a scan ran through his frame and servos gently touched his shoulders, “Hardwire? Mechling, speak to us. Come on, Hardwire, don’t glitch on me.” Ratchet spoke in a surprisingly gentle tone, almost as if he was afraid that shouting would break Hardwire completely.

Shaking himself mentally, Hardwire struggled to drag himself out of his blank state. He needed to run damage control somehow, he needed to ensure the safety of Star and the twinlings. Stirring, Hardwire rasped out, “What … what does Optimus think?”

Jazz answered before anyone else could, seeming to understand Hardwire’s unspoken fear, “No one is going ta harm Star or the twinlings, Wire. No matter what happened ta all of yah, you’re Autobots now an’ our comrades. Ratch’ ain’t gonna lock up your siblings or yah and none of yah are gonna be punished. This is a secret ta everyone but the highest of the Command Staff, Inferno, Chromia, an Elita-1. Yah don’t have ta lie ta protect them.”

Chromia piped up quietly, “We’re just trying to figure out what’s going on, Wire. Autobots would never hurt one of their own.”

Ironhide saw fit to add gruffly, “We just want to know what happened, and who to shoot for hurting your siblings so much.”

The last statement dragged a bitter laugh from Hardwire’s vocalizer against his will, “Isn’t that the goal of the vorn?” Lowering his gaze to the floor, Hardwire murmured softly, “You … you really want to know?” Ratchet straightened up, apparently satisfied that Hardwire wasn’t about to glitch out on them, and nodded firmly in reply to Hardwire’s reluctant question.

Hardwire vented deeply a few times, trying to decide whether it was really a good idea to tell them the truth. On one servo, the chance of them believing him were slim to none. The chances that they would believe him and react with extreme prejudice were just as slim, but far more worrying. Organics were not well received by most Transformers, Hardwire had learned that factoid somewhere but couldn’t place it at the moment.

_But if I don’t and they single out Starwish and the twinlings thinking that I’m the “normal, unknowing brother”…_ He stiffened unconsciously, his free servo clenching silently, _No. No way. I’m with them all the way. If that means bringing out my own secrets to air like dirty laundry, then so be it._ Not daring to look up from the floor, Hardwire took one more vent and then threw himself into the proverbial lions’ den, “I don’t know how it happened. All I remember … all I remember is a wall of fire coming right at us and then … then I woke up in a strange place with metal bodies all around. I searched around and found Star and the twinlings but … we didn’t know where we were…”

He closed his optics briefly, “We didn’t even know **what** we were.”

He didn’t need to see to know that his last sentence garnered horrified reactions, the sudden sharp intakes all around testified to that. Ironhide hissed in what might have been disbelief, abject horror, or both, “You … you too?”

Hardwire nodded silently and immediately felt the tingle of Ratchet scanning him intently again. Hardwire optics snapped open and he lifted his helm to glare at Ratchet, “Stop it, Ratchet. I’m not damaged.”

Ratchet snapped, “Like frag you’re not! Why didn’t you tell me- All of you at once! Who would be so sick as to completely reprogram-”

Hardwire raised his helm and straightened up, his spark starting to pulse with the beginnings of fear-bred anger as he cut Ratchet off, “We weren’t ‘reprogramed’ Ratchet. I just told you, we were transformed.”

Ratchet tutted at him critically, as if Hardwire had just stated something utterly ridiculous, “No one can turn an **organic** into a sparked cybertronian. It just isn’t possible.”

The anger grew a little more, both servos clenching into fists at Ratchet’s blatant dismissal, “Then go tell that to whoever did this to my family and me so we can go back home and away from this peace-forsaken pit.”

Ratchet blinked sharply before frowning even more deeply, “You’re missing the point, Hardwire. It is impossible to transform an organic into one of our kind, so the memories all of you possess must be faked somehow. I need you to try to remember-” Ratchet’s words faded away as images flashed through Hardwire’s mind. Images of home, memories of people he’d seen, places he’d been to, the life he’d lived before waking up in a fictional world. _Earth, my family, our guardians, my friends … all fake? Nadine…?_

Hardwire was suddenly on his feet with a roar, “ **No**!” Ratchet took a startled step back, optics widening as Hardwire snarled tightly past the stinging in his optics, “Don’t. You. Dare. Say that my memories are false. Don’t.”

Ironhide laid a servo on Hardwire’s shoulder, “Easy there, Wire, I know it might be difficult to accept-”

Hardwire knocked Ironhide’s servo off of his shoulder, “Like slag, Ironhide! You can’t just up and say that my memories, my **entire life** , are fake! You can’t tell me that my childhood, my guardians, my home, my fia-” He choked a bit on the last word and fell to silent heaving for a few kliks, trying to restrain himself from doing something. Doing what, he didn’t know, but he didn’t really want to find out. Yet.

Finally, Hardwire regained himself enough to raise his helm and glare daggers at a still stunned-looking Ratchet, “Prove it.”

Chromia asked tentatively from behind him, “Mechling?”

Hardwire swiveled his gaze to glower at everyone else in the room as he tightly elaborated, “Prove. It. You say that all of my and my family’s lives up until a few orns ago are fake. Prove it.”

Ratchet sputtered a bit and Hardwire pressed the advantage he sensed, “You don’t have proof, do you? That’s why you’re asking me about Star and the twinlings. Because you don’t have a single piece of hard evidence.”

Jazz said, “But the chances of transforming an organic-”

A cool voice interjected for the first time and all helms swiveled toward its owner, “Are currently higher than the chances of falsified memories by exactly 2.0009 percent. From what I have observed, the chances of falsifying the lives of four different cybertronians perfectly, with all four believing that they are an adoptive organic family with syncing memories, are 0.0003 percent. The chances of unethical scientific tampering, particularly with AllSpark energy, while still low, have a 2.0012 percent chance of being feasible.”

Chromia hissed, “Prowl, you can’t be serious!”

Prowl flicked a doorwing at her statement, but kept his optics on Hardwire, “I am completely serious.”

Hardwire glared at him suspiciously, servos still clenched in tight fists as he tried to get a read on Prowl, “You believe me then?”

Prowl dipped his helm in a fractional nod, “Unless solid evidence to the contrary is uncovered … yes.” Ratchet looked fit to explode and Prowl, seeming to sense the coming rant, turned to the CMO cooly and asked, “Ratchet, you have gone over the processor scans of Hardwire and his family unit thoroughly, have you not?”

Ratchet’s servos fidgeted at his sides as he fumbled out an answer, “Well, yes, of course. Especially after the video, I’ve gone over the recorded scans most thoroughly, but…”

Prowl continued, his tone unreadable, “Have you found undeniable evidence within their processor scans that their memory cores have been reprogramed, had data deleted, or fed false data over an extended period of time?”

Ratchet rubbed his faceplate with one servo, “No! But that doesn’t mean-”

Prowl overrode Ratchet smoothly, his tone that of someone experienced in gleaning information from a disgruntled source, “Have you any irrefutable medical proof from any **other** scan, examination, or procedure that would indicate severe tampering with the consciousness or cerebral integrity of Hardwire, Starwish, Zipline, or Fast Track?”

Ratchet heaved a sigh and shook his helm while Hardwire watched in numb wonder as Prowl of all bots defended Hardwire and his siblings. Prowl swept his gaze over everyone else in the room, “Then why is it so hard to accept to validity of Hardwire’s claims?”

Chromia blurted out, “Because we have **sparks** , Prowl! We have thoughts and souls and feelings! You can’t give that to something so filthy and barbaric and … and disgusting!”

Just like that, the anger that had started to fade in Hardwire at Prowl’s acceptance of his words roared and morphed into an icy rage that would have left him breathless had he still possessed lungs. His engine gave a low revving snarl that caused everyone else in the room to fall instantly silent. Very slowly, Hardwire turned to face Chromia, a thousand thoughts and things he wanted to say flashing through his mind as his jaw remained clenched stubbornly shut.

For several kliks all Hardwire could do was stare at Chromia, engine snarling a low, hateful rhythm as he struggled to find a way to express the multitude of things running through him. He had been trying his hardest to acclimate to Cybertron ever since coming here, trying to live and smile and not scream at the insanity of it all or how he would most likely never see his old home again. Being mechanical, being on a strange world, even the simple act of answering to the name Hardwire instead of Michael was a constant stress that he’d slowly grown accustomed to feeling.

But for Chromia to say those things … Hardwire suddenly became once again acutely aware of the shifting of gears in his frame, the fact that he had no heart, no blood, the sensation of being **metal** when he should have been a human and all that the word entailed.

There was a moment of disconnection, where Hardwire felt as if he was staring at some kind of screen, trapped in a deep dream instead of a reality he would never have wanted in the first place. That if he just moved, or blinked, or simply concentrated, the sight of metal beings around him would vanish and he would suddenly find himself back where he belonged. Then the disconnection broke with a lurch that left him cold all over.

Chromia was beginning to shift nervously now, her stance shifting into something more conducive to fighting should she be rushed. Ironhide’s armor was starting to bristle warily, uncomfortable at the prolonged stare Hardwire was leveling at his sparkmate. Hardwire couldn’t find it in him to care. Finally, he felt his frame, his horrible, metal, non-human frame, become capable of motion again and his lip components curled into a sneer, “And what, **exactly** , would you know of organics, femme?”

* * *

It had been a long time since Chromia could be caught off guard by a mech, she normally was so good at reading them. True, Hardwire had always been a puzzle with his easygoing demeanor being completely at odds with his red optics and his Bāsākā syndrome, but this … Chromia found herself instinctively reaching for her pistols when Hardwire suddenly sneered. The normally sweet and occasionally shy mechling was growling a low, constant tone in his engine, his red optics, normally so at odds with his demeanor, now gleamed with a contempt and anger that was truly spark-stopping.

When Hardwire finally spoke, Chromia knew instinctively that she had just crossed a very important line that she hadn’t known existed. Hardwire’s deepish voice had sunk to a truly malevolent tone that set off every femme instinct in her to either shoot or run away. Hardwire wasn’t moving at all, but his looming frame, slowly bristling armor, and the growl of his voice was threatening enough to make not pulling out her weapons a conscious effort.

She had seen what Hardwire turned into when his Bāsākā program took over, but it was suddenly very clear that she had never actually seen **Hardwire** get well and truly fragged off. Taking a slow vent, Hardwire continued to speak, his voice biting and bitter, “Well? I’m waiting. You seem so sure of organics, certainly you are a **wealth** of knowledge about them. For instance, you must know that a healthy planet can provide a home to more than a thousand different mammalian species alone, not counting the organic flora and fauna that form a critical basis to their food-chain.”

His helm tilted to one side faintly as he continued, “You must also know that many of those mammalian species form extremely strong familial ties, unhesitatingly risking their own lives for members of their family, pack, or whatever else you wish to call a genetically related group. These bonds of family can even extend beyond the boundaries of species, with some organics becoming so attached to one another that they would risk injury, illness, or death for someone who **isn’t even of their own kind**. Those ‘barbaric’, and ‘disgusting’ creatures you speak of are capable of forming organized societies complete with language, government, culture, religion, and art. They can design ways to purify the liquids and substances they consume so that their younglings will not risk illness every time they refuel. They can make their way out into the wilds of a world that could kill them in a hundred different ways and out of those wilds make **cities**.”

Hardwire’s helm straightened and he drew himself up a little more, his pedes still not moving from the spot, “You know what else they can do, Chromia? They can tell stories, not just historical records, but fantastical tales that represent ideals and morals that are then questioned and examined just for the sake of the puzzle it makes. They can teach, they can learn, they can **sing**.”

Hardwire took a slow step back, seeming to unconsciously acknowledge Ironhide’s protective shifting of stance even as he continued to pin Chromia to the ground with his gaze and everyone else in the room with his snarled words. Raising his chin, Hardwire bit out something in the foreign language to which he and his family unit had sometimes reverted. But this time, instead of a quick word or two, it was a carefully enunciated phrase that rolled off his glossa with an ease that only highlighted just how different it was from any other language on Cybertron.

Tearing his gaze away from Chromia, Hardwire growled at the other mechs in the room, his optics staring pointedly at Ratchet in particular, “Hear that, Ratchet? Language. A functional communication method with a grammatical structure and syntax. Know where I learned it? My guardians. The guardians who I remember in my **fake** and **impossible** memories. Memories I can’t prove because they take place on another planet, but guess what? You wouldn’t be able to prove most of your youngling memories to me either and you’re still standing on Cybertron. Pictures can be faked, locations destroyed, witness accounts? Well that obviously doesn’t count with Starwish or the twinlings so why would it count with you?”

Prowl’s doorwings were slowly heightening in wariness, “Hardwire, I think it would be wise if you calmed down…”

Hardwire scoffed, “Calm down? Why should I? I’m just a thoughtless, emotionless, soulless creature stuck in a body I never wanted. That’s what it means by your standards if I’m truly an organic turned into a cybertronian doesn’t it? Standards no doubt set by your exhaustive research into the matter.”

Chromia could feel Ironhide’s confused frustration over why Hardwire was so insistent on the matter, now even going so far as to verbally attack Ratchet and himself to try getting his point across. It was that confused frustration, coupled with Chromia’s own, that caused Ironhide to say explosively, “Fraggit Hardwire, organics slaughter members of their own species all the time! Why would you insist on formerly being part of a species like that?”

Hardwire whirled on Ironhide, daring to take a step forward as he suddenly bellowed, “Slaughter members of their own species? What the frag do you think the Autobots and Decepticons are doing **right now**? Holding a civilized debate? You are all killing each other! You know why some organics do it? Because they want their freedom from other beings who are trying to use them as tools! Because their homes are being threatened, their families, their mates! If organics are so savage, barbaric, and unfeeling for killing members of their own kind for those reasons then **what the pit is your excuse**? If I should denounce being a former organic because of their wars than why the frag should I be proud to call myself a cybertronian? Because you are all not only succeeding in killing each other but your entire **planet** as well?”

A heavy silence slammed down on Ratchet’s office, with the only sound being the heaving of Hardwire’s vents as he stood there shaking, red optics glowing with a menacing brightness. Chromia felt her processor go blank, unable to formulate a response to anything Hardwire had said. She felt unable to say anything, really. It was as if all the words in the room had been snatched away by Hardwire’s last bellowed accusation.

Hardwire pulled away from Ironhide and Chromia suddenly saw the hurt lurking deep under the anger. It wasn’t just the kind of hurt that came from getting into an argument with friends, it was the kind of hurt that came from being betrayed in a deeply personal way.

The hurt vanished under his anger once again as he suddenly pushed past them with a low snarl in his own language and when Hardwire actually moved to walk sideways through the door, not daring to fully expose his back to them, it finally hit Chromia just how much trust they must have shattered with one stupid, thoughtless conversation and a few callous comments. _Oh pit, what have we done?_ Chromia moved to follow Hardwire out of the office, her sparkbond with Ironhide letting her know that he had come to the same realization as his mate.

Hardwire was already halfway to the medbay exit by the time Chromia, Ironhide, and the others had emerged from the office, not turning around as Chromia shouted, “Wire!” Ratchet called out as well, joined by a disgruntled Jazz only to receive no response. As the medbay doors slid open and Hardwire stormed through them, Ironhide yelled, “Mechling, Hardwire! Wait!”

Finally Hardwire turned, his voice a savage snarl as he roared, “I’ve answered your fragging questions, now leave me be!” Without another word to them, Hardwire strode off down the halls, intercepting a startled looking Starwish and dragging her away from the medbay. When she protested, Hardwire gave a biting explanation that made Chromia feel vaguely sick, “Later. I don’t want you around **them** right now.”

Them. Something about the way he said the word made it sound like he was not just indicating a group of individuals, but like he was speaking of a foreign entity altogether. Ironhide sensed it as well and rumbled uneasily over a private com with Chromia, Ratchet and the others who’d just been part of the recent debacle, ::He makes it sound just like how we refer to the Decepticons. Not fellow cybertronians, but a group of enemies.::

Prowl remained outwardly inscrutable as he replied bluntly, ::Whether you intended to or not, all of you made a dividing line in that office. A boundary between being the normal mech we all saw him as, or a potentially outcast anomaly because of his beliefs, his family, and his lineage.:: Shifting his optics to glance sidelong at them, Prowl added with a blank tone that was somehow accusatory, ::I believe Hardwire has just made it very clear on which side of that line he stands.::


	8. Backstory: Meister Prowler

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Long before the Great War, Prowl was a detective working in the Praxus Precinct. When the precinct gets word that the infamous thief Meister plans to strike a target within their jurisdiction, Prowl is assigned to the case in the hopes that he can catch the seeming uncatchable.

Detective Enforcer Prowl of the Praxus city-state Enforcer Precinct jogged down the halls, the closest thing to a sprint that was allowed in the halls of the precinct unless it was a city wide emergency. Several lower-ranked enforcers, seeing the silver detective insignia on his wings coupled with his rapid pace, scrambled hastily out of his way, doorwings flattening against their backs to give him extra room as he made a beeline for Chief Enforcer Sear’s office.

Despite his haste, deeply ingrained ceremony forced him to stop just out of range of the door’s sensors and ping Chief Sear’s com with a entry request. The responding ping granting permission happened exactly .5 kliks later and Prowl promptly hurried into Sear’s sparsely furnished office.

Chief Sear stood behind his desk, black doorwings arched high in a subconscious show of angry tension that accidentally displayed his golden diagonal Chief Enforcer stripes in their full glory. Prowl automatically saluted his superior even as his processor catalogued everything about Sear and the other mech standing in a corner of the office for analyzation.

Every micrometer of Sear’s pitch black armor was taut and bristling faintly, making him seem larger and more dangerous than normal, that, coupled with the agitated glint in Sear’s cobalt optics and his high-held doorwings practically screamed that there was a very, very big problem in Praxus. The flat-folded doorwings and scowl of the other mech did nothing to alleviate the sense of emergency or sooth the thousands of terrible scenarios now spinning through Prowl’s processor. Keeping his tone as flat and calm as possible, Prowl said, “You commed for my immediate presence, Chief Sear?”

Sear’s deep cobalt optics locked onto Prowl even as he remotely locked the door and activated the sound and sensor-dampeners in the walls, “Yes. Detective Prowl, am I correct in assuming that you are acquainted with Dispatch Rammer?” His words were accompanied by a quick servo-motion to the mech brooding in the corner and Prowl politely nodded, doorwings dipping fractionally in both acknowledgement of Chief Sear’s question and greeting to Rammer.

Prowl had indeed heard of Rammer. He was a Dispatch officer with a highly advanced trajectory program in his CPU, making his directions to field officers often invaluable while on chases. Prowl himself had never needed Rammer’s assistance in that area, his tactical programs being able to easily outstrip Rammer’s less expansive deductive skills. Still, several of Prowl’s colleagues in the Detective Division as well as the Patrol Division spoke highly of the mech and they had come across each other once or twice in the precinct itself.

Rammer’s doorwings flicked out of their flattened positions long enough to silently return the greeting before both mechs returned their attention to their Chief. Chief Sear vented briefly, “Straight to business then. Dispatch received an E-Ranked report twenty breems ago, from Bhutt Plaet.” It took a monumental effort for Prowl to not flick his doorwings contemptuously at the name, knowing that his Chief would not have called him in for one of the spoiled noble’s famous imagined slights or innumerable scandals. Chief Sear moved to rest his servos briefly on his desk, “Normally, we wouldn’t pay much attention to yet another of Plaet’s reports, but this time we received confirmation from the Iacon Precinct.”

Chief Sear locked gazes with Prowl grimly, “Meister broke into Plaet’s Iacon estate, but failed to achieve his objective.”

Prowl’s doorwings flared in shock before he could suppress the urge, “Failed? Was there a sighting?”

Chief Sear shook his helm, “Unfortunately, no. It was just very, very fortunate timing on Plaet’s part. He left Iacon on an earlier transport than was listed on his itinerary. Judging by the time the security guards and stewards remember blacking out, the network connection to his Iacon estate had already been cut off by the time Meister got in.”

Rammer revved his engine unhappily “Plaet believes Meister will pursue him here. Load of slag if you ask me but…”

Prowl shook his helm, processor already calculating percentages with the data he currently knew, “No. According to what I have heard, Meister has chased his targets to their other estates before. Also, this would be a mark on his hitherto perfect record.”

Chief Sear nodded fractionally to Prowl, “Detective Prowl is correct, this is not the first time Meister has been thwarted by a network disconnection. He’ll be coming to Praxus to see it through.” A low vent escaped Chief Sear, “Which means it’s our turn.” Prowl felt a faint shiver run through his plating at that, especially since he could already extrapolate why Chief Sear had seen fit to inform Prowl personally about the matter.

“You are assigning me to the Meister case.” Prowl’s statement was polite but certain.

Chief Sear nodded as he straightened up, “Correct, I am placing you in charge of this case, Rammer will be your assigned Dispatcher for the duration. You will have full access to all records compiled about the case and free rein over your team roster.” He paused to lock gazes with Prowl again, “You are the best detective in the Praxus Precinct, Prowl, very probably the best in the entire Enforcer Corps. If anyone can finally outmaneuver this mech, it’s you.”

Prowl saluted again, coupling it with a short bow as he did so, “I will do my best, sir.” Chief Sear nodded and wordlessly held out a datachip to the black and white officer. Prowl accepted it just as silently, barely waiting for Chief Sear to dismiss him and Rammer before leaving the office and jogging back to his own.

Once again, mechs made way for Prowl, assuming correctly that he working on an incredibly important case if it warranted such a fast jog through the precinct halls. Prowl hastily stepped into his office, reflexively locking the door behind him and idly wishing for the seven-hundred-and-fifteenth time that his office was equipped with sensor-dampeners like Chief Sear’s was.

While his office was equipped with the standard sound-dampeners, such a thing would not stop a particularly inquisitive secretary or street enforcer from eavesdropping on whatever went on in his office. All they needed to do was heighten their doorwing sensitivity and brush it against the wall to pick up on the sound waves being absorbed by the dampeners and extrapolate from there.

Pushing that thought aside, Prowl absently sat down at his own desk as he powered on the desktop computer, waited for it to fully start up, and inserted the datachip Chief Sear had given him. An unbearably long 3.4 kliks passed before the computer finished loading the data and displayed it for his perusal. With a spark beating just a touch faster than normal, Prowl began reading over the profile and case data of his newest assignment.

Normally, as the top detective in the entire Praxus Precinct, Prowl would have been insulted to be assigned a thievery case, he had been transferred to the Homicide Subdivision vorns ago because of his skill. But this was no insult to his skill … because Meister was most certainly no ordinary thief.

Meister, an alias assigned by the Enforcer Corps for lack of anything else, was a master hacker and burglar with a fully deserved reputation as an uncatchable criminal. Within the space of a mere seven vorns, Meister had successfully infiltrated the homes of one hundred and sixty-nine high caste mechs and femmes, hacked into their private networks, and stolen sizable portions of their fortunes before vanishing without so much as an alt-mode sighting.

The thefts had taken place all over Cybertron, victims ranging from lesser-known nobles such as his current target Bhutt Plaet to globally famous mechs such as Iacon’s Emirate Avalon and Kaon’s Governor Generalissimus. Prowl felt his optic ridges rise as he read the list of locations and mechs that had been previous targets of Meister. Apparently even the supposedly impenetrable holiday home of Sentinel Prime himself in Crystal City had not withstood the stealthy invasion of Meister. Though Prowl wasn’t entirely surprised to have never heard of that particular theft before, no doubt the Prime would have kept it as quiet as possible to prevent humiliation.

They rose even higher at the zero-percent fatality rate listed in the file. _How on Cybertron did Meister manage that for seven vorns?_ The worst thing to ever happen was that the estate guards often woke up with horrible processor aches and no memories of the break-in aside from hearing a high pitched noise right before blacking out. Prowl’s optics narrowed as he read further on recorded methods and aftermaths. Any enforcers in the area had suffered similar bad fortune during any attempts to catch the thief, all of them either oblivious until it was too late, outmaneuvered before even making contact, or waking up with the same sound-induced lack of memory as the guards.

One hundred and sixty-nine successful thefts. One hundred and sixty-nine times detectives of the Enforcer Corps had challenged Meister and been put to shame … and now it was Prowl’s turn to step into the tactical arena with the frameless thief.

A tiny thrill rippled through Prowl’s spark at that thought even as he used to computer to begin sorting through the profiles of the mechs and femmes of the Praxus Precinct in search of those who would be best suited for the case. He temporarily bypassed the Patrol Division, instead overviewing and selecting the entirety of the High-Speed Pursuit Division’s Delta Squad first. Alpha Squad was too high-profile, and, though Prowl would never admit it aloud, too arrogant for the case. They wouldn’t take well to getting orders from anyone in the Detective Division, even Prowl, and that would inevitably lead to mistakes.

Delta Squad may not have had as many completed missions in their records, but their alt-mode stats were acceptable and their personality dossiers indicated a willingness to work with the other divisions. Plus, if all went perfectly, Delta Squad wouldn’t have to do more spend a few lunar-cycles on high-alert. The best captures were the ones that never reached the streets.

Returning to the Patrol Division, Prowl sorted through the available mechs and tagged twenty of them, all ones he had worked with before and knew from personal experience to be skilled and reliable. Almost as an afterthought, he added Goodsight to the list, the femme was an adept and experienced psychologist who could prove invaluable in narrowing down when and how Meister would strike.

Finally, Prowl used his desk computer to check if one mech in particular from his own division was was currently available. The registry came up positive and Prowl opened a com channel, ::Prowl to Glock.::

Soft yet graveled tones responded immediately, ::Glock here. What do you need?::

Prowl began organizing the datachip files into separate windows so that he could view multiple ones at once, ::Report to my office, I have a case that requires your assistance.::

It took Glock seven breems to reach Prowl’s office, during which Prowl made himself busy analyzing every scrap of data compiled on the case and formulating hundreds of theories on methodology, and motive. He also made a mental note to procure a copy of the schematics of Bhutt Plaet’s estate so that he could start making a plan. Glock pinged an entry request at the office door and Prowl remotely deactivated the lock so that his fellow detective could enter.

Glock stepped inside, smaller-than-normal dark green and cobalt doorwings flicking a greeting, “It must be an important case for you to call in backup. Especially from me. Who are you after this time?”

Prowl returned to doorwing greeting automatically, “Meister. He attempted to rob Bhutt Plaet’s Iacon estate, however, the network there had already been shut down. Chief Sear has substantial evidence to indicate that Meister will make another attempt here in Praxus.”

Glock’s doorwings didn’t so much as twitch, however, he did hastily pull up a chair and sit down, “By the AllSpark…”

Prowl flicked one doorwing in agreement at the invocation before pressing on, “I have been given access to all previously compiled data from the other Enforcer precincts that have encountered Meister, but, I am in need of more data if I am to apprehend the criminal.”

Glock was already shaking his helm, “And you think that my connections would help? Sorry mech, Undercover Divisions all over Cybertron have already tried to find this mech from the other side of the law. There’s nothing to find. If he has any contacts, they’re as untraceable as Meister.”

Prowl felt a flash of disappointment, “I suspected as much. However, that was not my request,” Glock perked up wordlessly, soft blue optics locking with Prowl’s as he continued, “I need you to keep a close optic on all travel into Praxus. Both illegal and not. Try to find out if anyone has purchased a fake identity or pass into Praxus within the past five orns or so. It will most likely be registered to a mech or femme of the Cultural Investigative Caste, Medical Caste, Science Caste, Art Caste, or Noble Caste.”

Glock raised an optic ridge, practically radiating his surprise even though his doorwings gave no sign of it, “That’s a lot to track down, Prowl. May I ask why?”

Prowl pressed a few controls on his computer, transferring the display from the normal power-efficient flat screen he preferred to use to the more common holographic projector in the center of his desk. Immediately, a map of Cybertron sprang into existence between them, small pulsing dots appearing in each of the major cities and a few locations just outside of them, “These markers indicate the locations of every recorded robbery committed by Meister.”

Glock cocked his helm contemplatively, “They’ve taken place all over Cybertron, that’s common knowledge among the Enforcer Corps…”

A flicker of impatience as Glock’s inability to see what was so blatantly obvious to Prowl was pushed harshly to one side, “How did Meister gain access to all of these locations without leaving a trail, Glock?”

Glock shrugged, “That’s what every mech ever assigned to the Meister case would like to know.”

Prowl’s doorwings dipped with annoyance before he could stop them, “Meister is an alias assigned to the thief by the Enforcer Corps, ergo, he as another identity. Most likely one that would allow him to move freely between city-states without being questioned or apprehended for illegal city-to-city travel. A caste that would have perfectly acceptable reasons to visit multiple cities and stay there for no more than an orn before moving on.”

Glock’s doorwings finally displayed emotions, flaring wide with excitement as their owner straightened up, “Which means he would have to either be of one of the upper castes or be able to gain a fake pass claiming he is! Of course!”

_Indeed._ Prowl resisted the urge to point out how obvious the conclusion was, instead simply continuing with the task at servo, “Meister has a perfect record of one hundred and sixty-nine digital robberies. That would not be possible unless he had adequate time to research his target and plan out contingencies before striking. Therefor, he will be coming to Praxus as soon as possible, if he is not already here, in order to design strategies to bypass Bhutt Plaet’s security.”

Glock clicked his glossa against the roof of his mouth thoughtfully, “That won’t be easy. For all of Bhutt Plaet’s problems, adequate security has never been one of them. I remember scouting his estate while on a case, he’s got the best non-sparked security in Praxus. His guard force isn’t something to underestimate either.”

Prowl very pointedly did not ask what kind of case Glock had been working on to necessitate the scouting of a noble’s security. With mechs from the Undercover Division, it was best to simply not ask. Especially since Prowl’s sometimes-too-helpful processing capabilities had immediately brought up a gang incident five orns ago where a large gang had attempted to break in and loot the homes of various Praxian nobles before being apprehended.

It was a long-standing and unspoken rule that mechs in the Undercover Division could probably get away with any crime short of forced spark-coupling and murder if that’s what their mission called for. Thus, it was the firm tradition of every other division in the Enforcer Corps to never ask the Undercover Enforcers anything about their cases. Ever.

Prowl idly looked at the holo-map, “If you could also obtain any additional information about Bhutt Plaet, his security, and other data that would not be obtainable through the normal channels, I would appreciate it.”

Glock gave a low laugh, “Monitor all incoming traffic for a high caste mech who might be Meister’s secret identity **and** procure whatever information the underworld has on Bhutt Plaet? Anything else you want me to do? Perhaps arrange a meeting between you and Praxus’s local crime boss?”

Prowl looked away from the map, briefly halting his calculations to ask, “Do you believe that would be beneficial to the case? I had not entered that possibility into my calculations-”

Glock’s doorwings flattened in nervousness as he stood up, “Uh, no. Definitely not. Let’s try to keep it to one unpredictable criminal per case, alright? I still have welding scars from helping you on the Alabaster Case.”

Prowl frowned, doorwings communicating an apology as he said, “I was unaware at the time that a mech could have their frame modified to accommodate a pair of hidden arms, otherwise I would have-”

Glock cut him off with a wave of his servo, “I know, I know. I just don’t want to have to deal with two or more unpredictable criminals, especially not on a case as important as this one. I’ll go check my contacts and see what I can find. I’ll report back if I get anything.”

Prowl nodded, doorwings flickering in an inaudible sign of gratitude that backed up his words, “Thank you, Glock.”

Glock glanced over his shoulder plating, “Don’t thank me yet, I may not be able to help you.”

Prowl gave a tiny shrug that Glock didn’t see as he hurried out the door to go about his assigned tasks, leaving Prowl to start obsessively organizing his resources and make plans.

* * *

To outsiders, Praxus appeared to be an austere place, filled with culturally refined mechs and femmes who mixed the best of art and science together. While that certainly did make up a lot of the city’s architecture and mind-set, even in places like Praxus, certain establishments and the characters that came with them existed just as everywhere else.

Glock mused that it was particularly true when it came to his current location. It was his last stop of the cycle on his search for the information Prowl had requested. Technically, it was his first stop of the lunar-cycle. _I foresee a lot of recharge-less lunar-cycles in my near future._ Carefully, Glock wove his way through the already thick crowd, doorwings flattened against his backplates to avoid getting the appendages bumped or smacked by the wiggling counterparts of the club goers.

Crystallized was by far the most popular of all Praxus’s secret and not-so-secret lunarclubs, with mechs and femmes flocking from all over the city almost every lunar-cycle to dance and drink themselves witless. The club specialized in thudding music of varying octaves that vibrated through sensitive Praxian doorwings, either stirring their owners into a frenzy with its rapidity or soothing them into trance-like states with its slow, lulling pulses. UV lights of varying wavelengths lit the club interior, giving it an unnatural, secretive air that only encouraged the abandon displayed by normally dignified cybertronians while sequestered in its walls.

High-Grade and spiced energon flowed freely from the three small corner bars set on the northwest, southeast, and southwest ends of the establishment, leaving the northeast corner for the hallowed DJ booth that hid the equipment and operator from the dance floor. Glock weaved in and out of the dancing crowd, ignoring the lure of the synchronized waves of spark-pulsing music vibrating through his doorwings only by virtue of long practice. Whoever was acting as DJ that shift was incredibly good.

His nondescript dark green and cobalt paint blended in with the general colors of the other patrons, keeping anyone from paying close attention to him as he slipped easily into a stool at the northwest corner bar. Five kliks later, the femme bartender approached him and set a small sampler-cube of spiced energon in front of him, “Well, if it isn’t my favorite customer? What brings you here so soon?”

Glock let his doorwings unflatten from his back, sliding into a neutral yet friendly position as he discreetly scanned the sampler cube before drinking it, “You know me Tri-Axle, this is my favorite place to relax.”

Tri-Axle’s left doorwing jerked skeptically before settling as she leaned her backplates against the bar, ultra violet highlights tracing complicatedly attractive patterns over her armor that could only be seen while she was in the club, “You don’t come here to relax, Glock, you come here for info. So … what info are you looking to be served this cycle?” Throughout her entire speech, she kept her faceplates turned down and toward the wall, a preventive measure against lip-readers.

Glock unsubspaced a small pile of credits, placing on the bar between them but not taking his servo off of them as he said softly, “I got a list actually. This is the down payment, the rest depends on how much you have in stock.”

Tri-Axle’s neon green visor tilted to look at the credit pile before she nodded curtly. Swiftly, Glock picked up the sampler cube and handed it back to her, using the motion as a cover for when their servos brushed and he sent her part of his overall list through the contact. Tri-Axle’s doorwings stayed still as she refilled the sampler cube and handed it back, but her engine did rev a bit at the contents of his list, “Seriously?”

Glock nodded curtly, “Very. What have you got?”

Tri-Axle’s helm tilted and she suddenly flitted away from him to serve another customer who had wandered up to the bar. Glock waited patiently, Tri-Axle had been one of his contacts for almost seventy vorns and during that time, she had consistently proven herself to be reliable and discreet. That was the reason she was the only one of his contacts to get Meister’s name on her information request list. If she had something, she’d sell it to him, if she didn’t, she wouldn’t tell anyone that he’d been asking about the infamous thief. She knew better than to double-cross a member of the Undercover Division.

Returning to him and resuming her position facing away from him, Tri-Axle flicked her fingers toward the credits, “I can give you a list for item one right now. Items two and three I’ll need to retrieve from elsewhere and item four … that’s needs a bit of negotiation.”

Glock nodded easily as he pushed the pile of credits across the bar to Tri-Axle, where they promptly vanished into her subspace even as she transmitted a list of all known Science Caste mechs currently visiting Praxus. It was a short list, but still more than he was expecting, “How much will you need for the rest?”

Tri-Axle’s right doorwing drooped contemplatively, “A hundred should do it. The lists may be long, but they’re easy enough to get. Bring a hundred credits plus my usual fee next time and I’ll have the lists for numbers two and three waiting for you.”

“And number four?” His inquiry, made as softly as possible in the loud atmosphere of the lunarclub, made Tri-Axle vent nervously.

Twisting her helm to glance at him before settling back into position, she frowned, “You’re asking for a frameless mech, Glock. Most of my friends would even say he doesn’t truly exist if it weren’t for … certain incidents.”

Glock internally perked up, “Incidents?”

Tri-Axle’s doorwings flared aggressively, “That data isn’t for sale.” Glock dipped his own doorwings submissively, knowing that if he pushed the topic, Tri-Axle might leave altogether for the lunar-cycle.

He carefully skirted around the sensitive subject, “Alright. Is there anything you can sell me?”

Tri-Axle’s engine gave a contemplative rev that he barely heard over the pulsing frenzy of the club music and its enthusiastic listeners. Subconsciously, a shiver ran through Glock as another crescendo of vibrations raced over his doorwings. It was tantalizing, like a sentient voice calling for him to give in to his increasing spark-rate and dance, begging for him to join in the wild flow. Three interweaving octaves of synth-drums suddenly hammered through his doorwings, a jaunty little flute melody riding the waves of the drumbeats and Glock vented harshly at the sudden leap his spark took, non-existent colors dancing before his optics as he did so.

He abruptly lowered the sensitivity of his doorwings, deciding that the risk of being caught unawares by another patron was less than the risk of losing himself to the music. _I’m not even drunk … that is one fragging good DJ._

Glock realized that he’d said the last part of his thought aloud only when Tri-Axle gave a short laugh and replied, “Isn’t he? That mech knows exactly what frequencies Praxian doorwings are most sensitive to and which ones to mix for the best experience. If I hadn’t turned down my doorwing sensitivity before he started, I probably would’ve abandoned the bar in favor of the dance floor long ago.”

Glock gave a low, huffed laugh, “How is he keeping from knocking himself out then? Did he turn off his doorwings completely?”

Tri-Axle shook her helm, “He doesn’t have any doorwings. He’s- oh!” Her faceplates lit up excitedly, as if her own casual statement had just unintentionally held the secrets to instant wealth, “Stay here a breem, I’ll be right back!” Without offering any explanation, Tri-Axle hurried from around the bar and disappeared into the crowd, aiming for the DJ booth across the room. Glock tracked her for as long as he could with his optics before losing her in the waving mass of arms and doorwings.

Raising his doorwings so that he could lean against the bar without pinching them, Glock puzzled over why she had disappeared. After a breem of contemplation, he decided he would just have to wait and see and instead turned his attention to the lunarclub as a whole. Crystallized was one of the only lunarclubs in Praxus’s dark-light district that had never resorted to selling illegal “experience enhancers” to keep customers coming back. Instead, it was known for its exotic music, repeatedly hiring Music Caste mechs and femmes from all over Cybertron to play unique kinds of music that was either exceedingly rare in Praxus or completely unheard-of in any area other than its place of origin.

Such a practice was extremely expensive. Good DJ’s had a high enough fee without adding transport and visitor pass expenses to the sum, but the net gains earned from crowds of praxians coming to experience the music more than covered it. The draw was because of their frame-type. Doorwings were naturally sensitive to changes in their owner’s surroundings. Things like wind direction, atmospheric pressure, energy signatures, and sound frequencies that could usually only be heard by cybertronians of the Arts Caste or Worker Caste broadcasters.

With voices, the effect was negligible, it was all essentially on the same frequency, one that the doorwings didn’t pick up on as strongly unless the owner concentrated. But music used so many different frequencies at once it could cause the doorwings of a praxian to transmit extremely pleasurable sensations that either excited them or lulled them into an incredibly relaxed state.

It was a major reason why the Praxus Crystal Gardens were so large, well-cared for, and famous. The crystals naturally harmonized frequencies and soothed praxians through doorwing vibrations in a way that most members of the Arts Caste could only come close to after hundreds of vorns of practice.

Glock’s idle musings about exotic music and the reasons for its attractions were interrupted when Tri-Axle returned, a small non-praxian matte-silver mech in tow. Glock ran his optic up and down the newcomer’s frame, the combination of the long, dexterous fingers of an Arts Caste mech and neon green visor of a lunarclub worker telling him that he was faceplate-to-faceplate with Crystallized’s current DJ.

He automatically dipped his doorwings in greeting before realizing that the non-praxian probably had no idea what the motion meant, he started to give a verbal greeting when Tri-Axle interrupted him, “Jazz, this is Glock. Glock, this is Jazz.”

Glock’s optic ridges rose in shock, “Jazz? As in Jazz of Polyhex?”

The much smaller mech’s green visor flashed a touch brighter as he smiled easily, “You’ve heard o’ me.”

The accented phrase was more of a pleased statement than a question, but Glock answered anyway, “Of course I have, you’re one of the most famous DJ mechs on all of Cybertron!”

Jazz’s grin somehow seemed to grow, “You’re makin’ me blush, mech. Now, Tri-Axle here said thah you could use my help with somethin’. So what can Ah do for yah, Glock?”

Glock shot Tri-Axle a surprised look and an inquisitive flick of his doorwings, silently asking if she was sure about involving Jazz. Tri-Axle nodded firmly and Glock turned back to Jazz seriously, “I’m looking for information of a mech going by the alias of Meister.”

Jazz slid onto the bar stool next to Glock and swiveled it around to that his backplates were toward the main dance floor, smile slipping off of his faceplates in favor of a more contemplative expression, “Meister? Tha famous thief?” Glock nodded hesitantly and Jazz tapped the bar thoughtfully, “Why would yah be askin’ ‘bout a mech like thah?”

Glock hesitated again, reluctant to reveal his status as a member of the Praxus Precinct. As a general rule, while DJs were extremely knowledgable about the goings on of Cybertron’s underworld, courtesy of their workplaces, they hated Enforcers because of the latter’s tendency to shut down the lunarclubs at which they worked.

Jazz’s helm tilted toward him slightly, a knowing expression flickering across the parts of his faceplates not concealed by his visor, “Oh … Ah see. You’re one of tha Praxus Enforcers aren’t yah?” He swigged the sampler cube Tri-Axle had placed before him and continued, “Ah got no problems with tha Enforcer Corps, mech. You’re all just trying ta do your duty.” Glock suppressed a surprised flicker of his doorwings with difficulty at the famous DJ’s sincerely amiable tone. He would have assumed that such a prominent member of the DJ sect of the Arts Caste would be more hostile toward an Enforcer looking for information.

Jazz fiddled with his sampler cube a little as he asked, “How much yah willin’ ta pay?”

Glock’s surprise, and the unease that came with it, vanished upon the breaching of a familiar subject, “Depends on the quality and amount of what you have to sell.”

Jazz gave a low noise of assent before setting his sampler cube on the bar and sliding it effortlessly over toward Tri-Axle, who caught it before it could fall off of the bar, “Come back next cycle, right before this place opens. Ah’ll see what Ah can do.”

Glock frowned a bit at the casual order, “How do I know you have anything worth negotiating for?”

Jazz shot him a lazy grin as he stood up, “Ah’m a DJ, mech. Analyzing sound is part o’ my job. Thah covers gossip an’ info as well. But if you’re not sure o’ my qualifications…” He tapped his chin for a klik before saying, “Yah got a minimum of two metacycles before Meister makes his move, four maximum, but only if tha security at his next target’s estate is really, really good.”

Without waiting for Glock to come up with a reply, Jazz waved a servo lazily in farewell and disappeared into the crowd, no doubt returning to his DJ booth to resume working instead of letting a prerecorded track play through the speakers. Glock stared after the Polyhexian mech, trying to figure out why he had the distinct feeling of being kept in the dark about something. _I thought only the Enforcer Corps had enough data to make that estimation on Meister’s preparation times … The Cultural Investigative Caste were never allowed to publish that much information about the thefts._

Seeing his suspicious gaze, Tri-Axle piped up calmly, “Jazz has been commissioned by lunarclubs all over Cybertron, he probably has more secrets stored in his processor than I ever will. If he says he has something worth buying, I can guarantee it will be even better than that tidbit.”

Glock weighed the risks in his helm for a few kliks before nodding sharply to himself. Passing a few credits across the bar to Tri-Axle as silent thanks for introducing him to Jazz, Glock got up and left the lunarclub.

He would be back just before opening hours next cycle.

* * *

Prowl wandered through the towering crystals of the Praxus Crystal Gardens, doorwings lowered into a relaxed position despite his rushing thoughts by way of the soothing harmonies the crystals emanated. Just over one and a half metacycles had passed since Prowl had been assigned to the Meister case and already preparations were being finalized for the carrying out of his strategy to catch the infamous, frameless, thief.

Despite the fact that he, Glock, and Goodsight had gone over the plan exactly ninety-one times, checking for either statistical or psychological flaws that could conceivably provide Meister with an escape, Prowl still couldn’t stop his processor from whirling nervously through calculations.

Everything was as ready as it could possibly be within their two metacycle minimum time-limit. Several potential Meister suspects were being continually watched and all illegal travelers with forged caste papers had been tagged for observation and later arrest, whether they were Meister or not. But despite telling himself that everything was under control and ready, Prowl still hadn’t been able to stop himself from hovering and working overtime on reviewing every step and contingency for the past three cycles. Chief Sear had finally gotten tired of the complaints his fellow Enforcers filed and had effectively banished Prowl from the Precinct via a forced cycle-long leave.

Prowl sighed faintly to himself. He had hoped that the gentle lull of the crystals would ease his worries, but even their soothing tones failed to drown out the one, significant problem that plagued his processor.

Meister’s secret weapon. The reason why guards and enforcers alike had been knocked out without ever seeing the thief. If Meister employed it correctly during his newest heist, even Prowl’s best laid plans could very well be reduced to nothing but useless conjecture. Prowl had no idea what it was, or how it sent mechs into stasis without leaving any marks on them. The only clue he had was the fact that it gave off an incredibly high-pitched noise just before, or possibly during, being fired.

No weapon Prowl could think of or look up in the database matched that vague criteria. Most likely it was a improvised device originally meant to be employed in other, more legal, activities than knocking out guards and robbing their employers. Of course, that theory only made discovering the weapon’s true nature and how to circumvent it all the more frustrating. There were millions of tools that could be conceivably used as weaponry in the middle castes alone. Sifting through all of those, as well as low caste and high caste tools was an impossible task, even for Prowl, unless Meister illogically decided to hold off on his next heist for at least fifty vorns.

Prowl’s left doorwing gave an annoyed flick as he realized that he was back to focusing on his problem again instead of enjoying the gardens. As his doorwing slid back into its original position, it caught an errant sound wave mingling with the expected and soothing tones of the crystals all around. Prowl paused immediately, doorwings rising and falling delicately in an attempt to pinpoint the source of the unexpected noise. It was hard to do, even when Prowl enhanced the sensitivity of his doorwings and audios. The sound was almost like an echo, a repeat of one or another crystal melody several kliks after the fact. Except the sound wasn’t identical to the crystal’s.

Almost gratefully, Prowl’s processor latched onto the newest, much less sinister, mystery. He carefully began tracking the sound, pedes gliding over the well-worn paths between the crystals as he sought to reach the source of his newest distraction. His left doorwing shot up nearly vertical as it caught the sound more clearly. Prowl’s optic ridges slowly raised as he double-checked the garden schematics and realized that the sound was coming from somewhere off of the designated paths.

_A displaced crystal perhaps? Dislodged or moved by a reckless visitor?_ The thought made Prowl bristle faintly and leave the paved pathways, intent on discovering whether he was correct and, if he was, who was at fault for such destructive and irresponsible behavior. He wound carefully around the various sized crystals, making sure not to bump into them with his doorwings or step on the specially ground metal shavings that surrounded their placements in the ground.

The sound was getting steadily louder as Prowl approached its source, the nearer proximity causing Prowl to slowly doubt his current theory. _It does not sound right. Even for a displaced crystal … it sounds… off key._ The horrifying mental image of a broken crystal flashed through Prowl’s processes and the Detective Enforcer broke into a sprint, logic drives already spinning with hundreds of reasons of how or why somebot could have broken one of the precious crystals of the Praxus Crystal Gardens. Thievery was the top one with intentional vandalism as a close second.

Praxus crystals were extremely valuable and expensive, making their export and sale one of the city’s greatest sources of income. A particularly callous or reckless individual could very well have decided to try selling one on the black market, breaking a larger crystal into pieces in order to make its transport easier.

On the other servo, a mech with destructive tendencies or too much high-grade could very well lose his temper at the endless harmonizing of the crystals and break one in an attempt to vent his temper.

Prowl rounded a corner of the elaborate network of crystals and skidded to a stop on the edge of a natural clearing amongst the crystals, one of the rare ones that did not have a paved path leading to it. The small, non-praxian mech in the middle of the clearing looked up sharply from the extremely complicated-looking device he had been interacting with, blue visor flashing in surprise while Prowl looked around the clearing hastily for signs of theft or vandalism.

His optics flickered in surprise as he spotted no fragmented crystals, drunken mechs, or would-be thieves. There was only the small non-praxian with his unusual device, staring at Prowl in confusion. Prowl shifted his focus from the clearing to its inhabitant, doorwings flaring slightly in a subconscious show of dominance as he rapped out, “Identification. Now.”

The mech immediately unsubspaced a datachip and tossed it to Prowl, who caught it and slotted it into a datapad. Contained on the datachip were the authorization codes and digital passport of the stranger, who was raising his servos in a placating manner, “Easy there, Enforcer. Ah ain’t doing any harm.”

Prowl bit back the automatic urge to correct the other mech’s grammar, it was obviously an accent and thus couldn’t be corrected, in favor of scrutinizing the city passport and the authorization codes to the Praxus Crystal Gardens thoroughly. Finally raising his gaze from the datapad, Prowl asked, “You are Jazz of Polyhex?”

The mech, Jazz, nodded, “Yes sir. Is there a problem, sir?”

Prowl unplugged the datachip from his datapad, subspacing the latter item as he carefully crossed the distance between them, “What is that device and why did you bring it onto this premises?”

Jazz smiled easily at Prowl as he motioned to the device in question, “This? This is my mixer,” Jazz seemed to sense Prowl’s impending question and continued, “Ah was recording tha melodies o’ tha crystals for my work. Hoping ta use them in my next soundtrack, actually. Ah didn’t want anybot wandering by an’ messin’ up tha recording with their pedesteps, so Ah left tha paths an’ settled down here.” Jazz frowned briefly, “Thah ain’t illegal is it? One of tha caretakers said it’d be fine so long as Ah didn’t actually touch the crystals.”

Prowl blinked once, then twice, armor slowly relaxing from its bristled state as he passed the datachip back to Jazz, “No, it is not illegal. However, it is unexpected. Why would you record these crystals for your music? Are they not too quiet for a DJ’s work?”

Jazz chuckled for reasons lost on Prowl as he subspaced his passport, “DJ’s aren’t all about lunarclubs yah know. We’re composers first, lunarclub DJ’s second. Plus, you’d be surprised how good quiet sounds are when makin’ a soundtrack for a lunarclub. Just mess around with tha pitch a bit, accelerate tha tempo an’-” He stopped himself with another chuckle, “But yah don’t want ta hear about thah Ah’m guessing. So, is there anything else Ah can help yah with, sir?”

Prowl flicked his doorwings contemplatively, “Perhaps. I was attracted by the sound of off-key crystal melodies, was that a result of your recording efforts?” More importantly, was the equipment the DJ was using somehow risking the crystals and causing them to sound off-key?

Jazz’s faceplates flickered with an expression of realization, then vague frustration, “Thah would be my equipment actually. Ah’ve been playing back the recording, trying ta make it match tha natural crystals, but tha electronics o’ my equipment ain’t quite able ta replicate tha sound. Here, listen.” Moving back into place by his mixer, Jazz fiddled with a few switches and knobs before the off-key crystal melody pierced the air again, clearly from his device.

Now that he was standing directly across from the source, Prowl could finally understand what had made the melody sound to so worryingly off-key. It was the electronic undertones that occurred simply because it was being emitted from the mixer and not a crystal. Prowl cocked his helm to one side slightly, curiosity overtaking him for a rare moment, “I see. Does this render the recording useless for your work?”

Jazz shook his helm, “Nah. Ah just gotta get creative, find a way ta mask tha unnatural edge o’ tha sound. Ah should be fine so long as Ah don’t up tha pitch ta much. Don’t wanna knock myself out in tha middle o’ my work again…” The last sentence was a low mutter that grabbed his attention immediately, a half-formed idea flickering through his logic drives at the words.

Prowl folded his servos behind him, “You have triggered unwilling stasis while working? Should you not see a medic about possible helm damage?”

Jazz looked up from his mixer in surprise, obviously not expecting Prowl to hear, or at least to comment, on his words, “Hmm? Oh, it was only once. When Ah was a still a rookie at this job, Ah messed with tha pitch of an already high frequency recording like these crystals, overloaded my audios and knocked myself out.”

The half-formed idea was rapidly becoming a full fledged theory and Prowl started looking for extra data, “How would a high frequency sound induce stasis? I thought it required significant damage, dangerously low energon levels, or a particularly strong blow to the helm.”

Jazz made an idle motion with his servo before resuming his adjustments to the various controls of his mixer, “Usually. But tha reason mechs get knocked into stasis from hard impacts ta tha helm is because it causes a temporary circuitry input overload. Tha processor shuts itself down ta prevent tha overload from corrupting data or destroying conduits in tha processor. Shut off tha processor an’ tha frame falls automatically into stasis.”

His helm tilted briefly in Prowl's direction, indicating that he was glancing at the enforcer before answering the question Prowl was about to ask next, “Yah learn a lot about this stuff when yah work in rowdy lunarclubs.” Jazz shrugged a bit to himself, “Anyway, Ah found out tha hard way thah a loud enough sound at a high enough frequency can do tha same thing.”

The theory solidified in Prowl’s processor with an inaudible click and his doorwings shot straight up to their highest position on his back in a rare show of surprised elation at his deduction, _that is it! That is how!_ Jazz cocked his helm to one side at Prowl’s sudden doorwing motion, “Uh … yah okay, Enforcer, sir?”

Processor already spinning with ideas, plans, and contingencies, Prowl answered absently, “Yes, I am fine, Jazz. I am perfect, in fact. However, I am afraid I must bring our conversation to a close, there is something to which I must attend.” Hastily, Prowl gave a bow at the waist and a respectful dip of his doorwings to the mech who had inadvertently helped him enormously with the Meister case before hurrying away, barely hearing Jazz’s baffled goodbye float to his audios from behind him.

He had plans to amend back at the precinct, forced leave or not. Meister was going to walk right into a trap, and this time the criminal’s secret weapon would be of no help.

* * *

The grounds of Bhutt Plaet’s estate were quiet, the towering walls surrounding their sprawling expanses looming protectively over the silent stretches of land. On the inside of the massive grated gates, four Warrior Caste mechs stood in strict formation, scanners running over the area outside the gates repeatedly for signs of trouble.

On the walls, more mech guards were slowly walking back and forth on patrol, red optics gleaming in the dark of the Cybertronian lunar-cycle. Inside the estate grounds, security became even more daunting, with patrols of mechs and non-sentient drones, laser tripwires, and many more measure’s meant to thwart any intruder.

Overhelm, the carpet of stars and planets glinted even brighter than when the sun was there to partially blot them out. Closer to the planet of Cybertron, the two moons hung like silver, different-sized optics, prepared to watch the events about to take place on the outskirts of Praxus, in the spacious, five-wing home of one, Bhutt Plaet.

Praxus City proper towered in the distance, the number of lights only slightly lessened from the number employed during the sunlit cycles. Roads leading in and out of the city were few for a metropolis its size, each one heavily monitored for unauthorized visitors who might cause trouble in the regal city. Separate from these main highways, a single road stretched out like a solitary finger from Praxus proper to Bhutt Plaet’s estate, connecting it to the hub of life and business.

It was this road that the gate mechs were watching, training their sensors on the most intensely as they waited to see if this lunar-cycle would prove to be just another uneventful shift, or if there would actually be a need for their combat skills that lunar-cycle. The silver surface of cybertron gleamed softly, dimly, under the light of the stars and moons, not betraying the lone figure flitting from outcrop to outcrop with unnecessary luminescence.

The figure was small, much smaller than the guards patrolling Bhutt Plaet’s estates, so small and inconspicuous as it timed its dashes that it completely escaped notice until it was almost to the wall just to the right of the gates. One of the guards on the wall stiffened as he spotted a flicker of movement on his sensor-grid, hastily moving to the outer edge of the wall to look down and confirm with his own optics. His armor relaxed from its bristled state as he spotted a lone cyber-coyote sniffing at an outcropping near the wall, no doubt hoping to find some form of sustenance underneath it.

Apparently not finding anything worth consuming, the cyber-coyote moved away from the wall at a soft trot and the guard huffed faintly as he turned away from the sight, retracting the range of his sensor grid to prevent it from overtaxing itself and glitching as he resumed patrolling.

The guard failed to notice the dull silver figure that flitted out from under the outcropping that had interested the cyber-coyote and over the wall where the guard had been standing two breems before. Without hesitation, the figure slithered from the top of the wall, making it halfway down via careful magnetism before he let go and dropped the rest of the way. The figure froze as soon as he touched the ground, not twitching as the gate guards shifted uneasily and started looking around to confirm the blip of motion that had registered on their sensor grid.

He kept still even as one of the guards swept his optics right over the figure’s position before returning his attention to the grated gate and the road beyond it. Underneath a battle mask, the figure smirked. Had the guards been native praxians with doorwings, his escapade would have been over then and there. However, no Warrior Caste mech had doorwings, they were too easy to grab and twist while grappling with an enemy. Plus, the enhanced sensors in the doorwings had the nasty side effect of being extremely pain-sensitive to such grabbing and twisting, making them even more of a perceived weakness to the combat.

Thus, all they had with which to detect him were normal sensors that had no chance of detecting his shielded spark signature unless he was centimeters away and no way of hearing or seeing him unless he became abominably careless.

Once the guards attention was firmly back on the road and gate, the figure slipped slowly away, staying close enough to the wall that it masked his presence through its sheer size until he was safely far enough away to make a break into the main grounds.

The figure darted immediately to a statue, crouching in its shadow for a klik, careful not to touch the surface of his shelter in case of setting off its touch-sensitive alarms, before darting to the next statue in the long line of them that stood on either side of the driveway as it wound its way to the house itself.

Scuffing pedesteps sounded, five loud and distinct separate patterns ringing in his sensitive audios. _West sector patrol, route takes them past the driveway for approximately ten kliks. Twenty kliks before they’re out of sensor range of the driveway again. Seventy kliks before they’re out of optic range. Full breem till they’re out of audio range. Best place to hide would be…_

The figure scanned the statue he was hiding at the base of hastily to determine where its touch-sensitive alarm triggers were. Six popped up on his scan results, all at the base of the statue, and the figure grinned in spite of himself. Shifting a bit so that the statue’s pedestal-like base shielded him from the view of the approaching patrol, the figure jumped, bypassing the sensors on the base to scramble up the metal leg of the statue. Long, claw-like servos expertly found the gaps and seams of the statue, enabling their owner to quietly scale the visage of some long-offlined praxian.

He slid over the shoulders of the massive, several-story statue just as the patrol reached the driveway and began passing by the base of his hiding place. The figure went utterly still, clinging to the back of the statue directly between the splayed doorwings, vents ceasing all function, light-dampening visor pressed against the faux doorwing connectors to smother what tiny amounts of optic light might possibly leak past the black visor.

Below him, the five patrolling mechs looked around, their pedesteps rattling through his audios like drumbeats, their low murmurs sounding almost like shouts. One of the patrollers spoke up a touch louder than the others, making the figure wince and struggle not to lower his audio sensitivity, “Do you think he’ll really come this lunar-cycle?”

Another one scoffed faintly, “He’d be a fool to try. We’re not some soft, undertrained security force like he’s used to. We’re **Kaon** mechs.”

A third voice interrupted, the apparent leader judging by his words, “Quiet down and keep moving.”

No more words were exchanged, and soon the loud thud of their pedes had receded far enough into the distance that the figure felt it safe to move from his hiding place. As he jumped lightly down from the statue and kept moving toward the massive mansion, the figure couldn’t stop another smirk from flitting over his faceplates, _Kaon mechs indeed. Didn’t help Generalissimus much, now did it?_

The figure bypassed the drones and laser tripwires guarding the outside of the mansion, pausing in the window that was his chosen entry point to scan the floor for traps. He doubted Bhutt Plaet would booby trap his precious mansion floor with its expensive woven carpets, but it payed to be careful.

As his pedes touched the soft surface of the carpeting, practically sinking in the softness, the figure couldn’t stop from scowling, _fragger. Bet you made more than enough for this in your last “business” deal didn’t you?_ The figure ghosted down the halls, occasionally magnetizing his frame to the wall to climb over a particularly thick laser-grid, each passed vase, painting, and other examples of opulence making the rage in his spark burn a little brighter.

None of the items were fairly earned. None of the treasures acquired through decent means. In each and every one of the vases, the figure’s sharp imagination could hear the lap of spilled energon contained within, in each room it was as if he could hear the broken whispers of those who had been ground into nothingness by Bhutt Plaet’s corrupt business dealings.

Housing units for the lowest castes torn down so that he could build massive vacation estates. Small, privately owned clinics forced to close down because the owners spent too many credits paying Bhutt Plaet’s absorbent taxes to afford medical supplies. Mechs and femmes living on energon farms owned by Bhutt Plaet forced to turn over their younglings as thralls that were then sent into the gladiatorial arenas and forced to either make more credits so that Bhutt Plaet could indulge in his expensive tastes or offline trying.

None of these things happened in Praxus, not noticeably, anyway. At most it was just a few incidents, a servant mysteriously disappearing, a lunarclub being shut down by the Enforcer Corps for supposedly selling drugs after refusing to cater Bhutt Plaet’s more illegal tastes. Things that normally wouldn’t be noticed or connected to Bhutt Plaet himself. However, in other cities such as Iacon, Bhutt Plaet had grown blatantly careless and confident, attracting the figure’s attention and ire with his callous disregard for anything but his own pleasure.

As the figure padded past yet another offline terminal in the mansion and made his way up the stairs, he mused bitterly that there was a depressing number of “nobles” just like Bhutt Plaet on Cybertron, mechs fully willing to abuse the caste system to get what they wanted with no regard to the lives they ruined in the process.

A vicious grin suddenly appeared underneath the battle mask. After this lunar-cycle, Bhutt Plaet would find himself missing at least half of his energon-credits and a bunch of mechs and femmes struggling to recuperate from the losses of their homes or jobs would steadily, secretly, find themselves receiving just enough credits to get back on their pedes.

After passing through yet another room filled with more paintings than one mech could ever possibly need, the figure made a mental note to whittle down the collection if he had the time. Bhutt Plaet probably wouldn’t even miss them until he thought to compare his vornly inventory manifests.

A drone patrol swept past and the figure hid behind a corner until it had puttered on, _idiot for not keeping more sentient guards in here. Heh, probably afraid of his guards stealing from him. Guess that means I get to show him that irony is a glitch._

As the figure finally arrived at his desired location within the mansion, he paused at the unease that suddenly roiled in his tanks. Something was wrong. _This has all been too easy._ The thought flitted past without warning and he frowned, hesitating in the doorway as he ran discreet scans, checking for traps and finding none despite the unease his instincts were causing him.

His hesitation continued as he tried to pinpoint the source of his sudden unease. It certainly hadn’t seemed too easy. Routine, perhaps, but he’d been doing this for seven vorns now, he had more than enough practice to make breaking into Bhutt Plaet’s estate seem routine. There had been tightened security, a few close calls when a drone patrol almost spotted him in the halls, even his schematics of the mansion were slightly inaccurate … all just as he’d anticipated.

_This has all been too easy,_ a part of his processor whispered again, _it’s a trap._ At that thought, a dangerous smile slid into existence. _There aren’t any Enforcers around. That’s what’s wrong. They’re hoping to trap me somehow._ The figure almost laughed. He could, technically, turn back around and leave as silently as he’d come, not walk into the study where the main terminal to Bhutt Plaet’s private network was, not steal from him, not trigger whatever virus or alarm they had no doubt inserted into the system. He could leave and they would never be any the wiser.

But where was the fun in that?

Mind made up, the figure entered the study, sensors still on alert for spark signatures or conspicuous sounds as he padded up to the terminal and powered it on. Nothing untoward happened as he carefully rerouted the terminal display feed from the screen to his visor, ensuring that the total darkness of the study remained unbroken as he meticulously broke down the firewalls of the private network. Gleefully, he extracted an exorbitant sum of credits from Bhutt Plaet’s account, inserting a minor virus that would make all of the accounting glyphs read backwards out of spite before he began retracting from the system.

He was three-fourths out of the system network when a voice came from the doorway of the windowless study, “Meister, cease, desist and surrender or be taken in by force.”

From behind his visor, Meister’s optics snapped up to look at the figure looming in the doorway, surprised in spite of himself. He had been so absorbed in avoiding any alarms or viruses that he hadn’t even considered the possibility of a physical confrontation. His sensor grid expanded, sweeping out into the hallway has he continued to carefully exit the private network. _Alone, huh? And without a searchlight. He must be pretty fragging confident._

The newcomer’s blue optics narrowed, doorwings rising aggressively and blaster whining as it powered up. Meister carefully made no sudden motions, knowing that the praxian couldn’t see him very well, if at all, and probably only knew where he was via his doorwings. Slowly, he extracted his data cable from the terminal and raised his servos into a sign of surrender. The Enforcer’s doorwings flicked, “Come closer. Slowly.” _Smart enough to keep blocking my exit. Not bad._

Something about the Enforcer’s voice was familiar and Meister pondered on it as he obediently stepped around the terminal and slowly approached the enforcer. Meister did nothing until he was almost within arm’s reach, then, he abruptly unsubspaced his shoulder speakers and blasted a high frequency noise directly at the Enforcer, _recharge well mech-_ “What the-?” The startled exclamation left his vocalizer before he could stop it as the Enforcer, instead of dropping to the floor unconscious, lunged toward Meister, servos outstretched to stasis-cuff him.

Still broadcasting the frequency that should have knocked the Enforcer into temporary stasis, Meister dodged, twisting out of reach just in time and ending up behind the praxian with their positions reversed. The Enforcer’s doorwings abruptly flattened, quivering faintly on his backplates as they took the brunt of the noise until their owner whirled around, bringing his blaster to bear again, “Halt!”

Meister bolted, making it halfway down the hall before his pursuer even made it out the study door, _why didn’t he drop?_ Meister’s sensor grid pinged and he skidded to a stop before rounding a corner with an Enforcer waiting just behind it, _They surrounded the study while staying just out of my normal sensor range! Scrap!_ A blaster bolt, its color revealing it to be a stun setting, whipped past his helm as Meister changed directions hastily. The other enforcers that had been hidden in other rooms of the mansion were rapidly converging on his position as Meister desperately flung himself out of the tall hallway window.

Alarms shrieked, no doubt waking up the entirety of the mansion as Meister hit the ground in a tight roll, sprung back to his pedes and sprinted wildly for the gate. The mansion guards, now alerted to his presence by the sound of shattered glass and the wailing alarms, charged him, blasters firing rounds that were most definitely **not** set to stun.

Ducking, rolling, weaving, and dodging, Meister used his smaller frame to his advantage as he darted in among the guards, outmaneuvering their larger frames and leaving them tangled in unconscious heaps as his frequency blasts knocked them into stasis like it should have done with the Enforcer in the study. _Think fast, think fast, think fast!_ His audios, having been heightened for the duration of the heist, were ringing dangerously from all the blaster fire and shouting.

Meister ground to stop in front of the gate, the gate guards already unconscious at his pedes, _standard metal, grating is approximately two meters thick so the correct frequency would be-_ His speakers shifted to a different recording, an oscillating wave of sound that thundered throughout the nearby area, nearly knocking him off of his pedes as the sound smashed into the gate. The collision forced the metal to warp and bend with a shriek of protest, ripping open two of the central grating bars to form an aperture large enough for small mech to fit through.

Pedesteps sounded from behind him, drawing rapidly closer as he subspaced his speakers and flung himself through the hole in the gate, transforming as soon as he was through. His tires hit the road and he rocketed off toward Praxus, intent on losing himself in the hubbub of the city’s lunar-cycle life. Behind him, he heard a few muffled curses before the sound of a transformation that wasn’t his rent the air.

Enforcer sirens echoed over the nearby landscape and Meister swore internally as he realized it was the Enforcer who had found him in the study, the one his sound waves apparently didn’t effect. Settling a little more firmly on his tires, Meister whipped down the long road toward Praxus at speeds well over the legal limit, ire slowly morphing into exhilarated amusement as he realized that the Enforcer currently chasing him was doing the same. The mech was stubbornly trying to close the distance between them, probably not knowing that he was already the closest an Enforcer had ever been to keeping up with him in vorns. _Desperate enough to break the laws in order to catch me and fast enough to possibly pull it off, eh?_

It was a serious matter. For the first time in almost seven vorns, there was a serious, actual risk of getting caught and either imprisoned for vorns or outright executed. Yet, despite the danger the pursuing mech represented, Meister felt a giddy laugh erupt from his vocalizer as he careened ever closer to Praxus. Something was pumping through his energon lines, something that he hadn’t felt so intensely in vorns that was undetectable to medical scans but well known to Meister. The thrill of a challenge.

With another giddy laugh, Meister suddenly left the road in favor of the much bumpier surface of Cybertron and the highway not too far away from the private road leading to and from Bhutt Plaet’s estate. A quick check with his sensors confirmed that the Enforcer was now stubbornly tolerating the jolts and painful bumps to his tires as he followed Meister off road. If Meister could have, he would have grinned widely as he started initiating his long-unused escape contingencies and hacked into the Enforcer com channels, _Well, Mister Unaffected Prowler, let’s see what your alloys are_ ** _really_** _made of!_

* * *

Prowl bit down on a pained curse as his low-slung undercarriage scraped over a particularly large anomaly on Cybertron’s surface, ignoring the angry coms from the other Enforcers left behind in Bhutt Plaet’s mansion to slow down and wait for backup.

His plan to circumvent Meister’s mysterious weapon was working, he was probably the only Enforcer in a long, long time to actually have Meister in his sensor range and he was not giving up what little edge he had over the thief. If he lost contact with Meister, there was only a 0.005% chance of anyone in the Enforcer Corps finding him again until he once again successfully pulled off a heist. Once again, because if Meister got away now, this would count as another successful crime to put on his record.

Prowl hadn’t meant for Meister to actually rob Bhutt Plaet through the noble’s private network, he’d intended only to hide in the room at the end of the hall until Meister entered the study and then cut him off. However, he had underestimated just how skilled the thief was at evading notice. The mech was even masking his spark signature in some way, something which Prowl had been counting on detecting with his doorwings if the thief somehow circumvented the alarm program set up in the network. Prowl had only found Meister because he had grown suspicious of the irregular movements registering on the periphery of his doorwings sensory capabilities and gone to check the study in person.

All thoughts of what had already gone wrong were roughly pushed to one side as Meister finally reached the nearest highway leading to and from Praxus. Instead of swerving away from the city and toward the border, the sleek, dull silver and black alt mode began barreling toward the metropolis … in one of the incorrect four lanes of traffic. One of Prowl’s logic drives stalled at the sheer recklessness and seeming stupidity of the move before it stabilized and resumed calculating routes and percentages.

There was a high divider between the eight lanes of traffic, too high for Prowl to cross without transforming and climbing over. Prowl’s processor spun as he realized that the already slim percentage of him catching Meister decreased to a infinitesimal number should he take the time for such a maneuver. However, if he attempted to drive off-road alongside the outgoing lanes of traffic, he would not only sustain heavy damage to his undercarriage, but Meister would be able to quickly pull ahead because of the difference of their terrain.

All the calculations that came with those two realizations flashed through his processor within the space of two kliks or less and before Prowl could formulate an alternative that would work, his tires hit the smoothed, specially treated metal of the road and, with ten of his logic drives practically screaming at the idiocy of the move, he too swung into the opposing flow of traffic in pursuit of Meister.

Cybertronians swerved and swore loudly at him as they attempted to keep from crashing into the Enforcer suddenly plunging through their midst, the praxian in question darting in between the varying-sized alt modes, only receiving a few paint scratches for his recklessness by way of how fast his processor was receiving and sending data.

His processor was an irregularity in that era. A highly sophisticated, logic-orientated setup with programming that better accommodated the strategizing of wars and the commanding of armies than being an Enforcer in a time of global peace. Even if he only used half of his logic drives, Prowl could process situational data and use it to formulate plans in a smaller timeframe than an average mech focusing all of his attention to it. When he used all of his logic drives together, he had enough processing power to out calculate some of the supercomputers of Iacon’s science university.

Apparently, all that processing power was **just** enough to keep him from getting offlined in a mad chase through four lanes of opposing traffic at speeds that were well over three times the legal limit.

Ahead of him, the smaller alt mode of Meister swerved and darted in between panicking travelers, always moving aside at the last possible klik to keep from scraping his side against anyone else. Prowl briefly attempted to divert one logic drive away from his task of not offlining via head-on collision to figure out how the other mech, who surely did not have a processor as powerful as Prowl’s, could possibly maneuver through such a crowd without damage or seeming difficulty.

He promptly abandoned the attempt when it nearly had him slamming into a truck who was too slow in getting over to the side of the road. Prowl desperately swerved at the last klik, the screech of metal rubbing metal heralding the gravity of his close call.

His com pinged yet again, almost ruining his concentration, and Prowl absently set it to an always open setting so that his fellow enforcers could contact him without having to wait for him to open his end of the channel. Rammer’s voice rang on his inner comlink, bypassing the silence that surrounded him because of his offlined audios, ::Rammer to Prowl! Prowl, answer me!::

Prowl gave a strained grunt of acknowledgement, ::Preoccupied!::

Rammer sounded ever-so-slightly hysterical, ::I know! What the fragging pit do you think you’re doing? Get out of that traffic! You’re going to get yourself offlined and worse, you risk taking a lot of innocent mechs with you!::

Prowl internally shuddered as his left doorwing dented slightly under the force of a glancing collision with a startled two-wheeler. Correcting his course from the wobble the glancing blow caused, Prowl replied tightly, ::I have Meister in my optical range! I cannot lose him!::

Rammer snarled something distinctly unflattering before briefly switching channels. When he switched back to Prowl’s channel, he yelled, ::Delta Squad are on their way, they’ll pick up the chase at the south outgoing gates! Just leave that traffic!::

Prowl started to answer when a sudden, miraculous, clear stretch of highway appeared in front of him, giving him a perfect view of Meister’s next move. With a sudden revving roar, Meister swerved toward the smooth, straight barrier between the outgoing and incoming traffic lanes, hopping slightly on his tires to suddenly be driving **on** the side of the dividing wall instead of the road.

Three of Prowl’s logic drives crashed this time, making him swerve slightly as he tried to figure out how the thief was doing that without overbalancing and crashing on his roof. Meister took it further however as, with a cheeky flash of his taillights, he surged all the way up to the top of the barrier and suddenly partially-transformed, arms reaching out to grab the top of the barrier and swing himself over to the other side. Meister disappeared from Prowl’s optical view just as his three crashed logic drives rebooted and offered a belated solution, _magnetism, he used mild magnetism as well as his momentum to anchor himself to the wall!_

But now he was out of Prowl’s sight and the barrier between the highway lanes stretched into the city for some distance as well. By the time Delta Squad backtracked around the barrier, Meister would already be long gone, blended in with the crowd in a way even Praxus’ security cameras couldn’t track. The realization only took two kliks to form and register, sending something surging defiantly, insanely, through Prowl.

For vorns afterward, Prowl would always firmly maintain that the majority of his logic drives glitched in unison and it was that that facilitated his next action.

With a roar that he felt rather than heard, Prowl’s engine unleashed an extra spurt of power, carrying him to the side of the road, right next to the barrier, and directly in the path of a towering cargo transport. The mech in the driver’s seat of the cargo transport slammed on the brakes, the tires of the lumbering vehicle smoking as the vehicle’s driver tried to decelerate in time to avoid flattening the Enforcer shooting toward him.

Prowl abruptly jumped on his tires, mirroring the motion of Meister from mere kliks earlier, his momentum keeping him on the wall for the few nano-kliks necessary to align with the braking transport’s roof. To magnetize to the wall while at high speeds such as Meister had would take vorns of practice and training that Prowl did not have, however, that did not mean it was the only way to cross the barrier. Just as his momentum began to lose its ability to keep him on the wall, Prowl transformed, launching himself off of the wall and onto the roof of the transport as he did so.

His gears strained as he performed a twisting backflip and then several front flips in quick succession to prevent loss of speed, waiting until the last possible moment to jump with all of his might and momentum from his improvised moving springboard in the direction of the wall. Prowl sailed over the wall, optics flashing back and forth in an attempt to relocate his quarry before he was forced to transform back into his alt mode in time to hit the road with his tires spinning.

For a moment, his rear end swerved back and forth dangerously while his internals rattled painfully from the force of his landing. As he corrected the swerving and starting regaining what little speed he had lost, Prowl spotted Meister once more. The mech, although now in the correct set of lanes, still stood out by way of his reckless swerving from lane to lane, practically flying past the other drivers who were dutifully observing the speed limit.

Rammer’s now definitely hysterical shout practically echoed in his processor from over his com, ::Are you **meltdown**? What the frag was **that**?::

Prowl, now that he didn’t have to concentrate on not being rammed by traffic going the other way, replied curtly, ::By the time Delta Squad moved to cover Meister’s current lane, he will have long since escaped. I have to keep him within my sensor range if not optical view.::

Rammer sounded far from satisfied with Prowl’s explanation, ::So you use a transport truck as a springboard? What kind of meltdown logic is **that**?::

Prowl felt a brief flutter of triumph as he narrowed the gap between himself and Meister slightly, ::The kind that is required to apprehend Meister.::

Rammer continued to hiss and sputter for a few kliks until Prowl interrupted him curtly, another plan forming in his processor, ::Rammer, reroute my com signal directly to Delta Squad.::

Prowl could easily imagine the incredulous look Rammer was undoubtably giving his screen as he watched Prowl weave through traffic at atrociously high speeds. Thankfully however, Rammer acquiesced to the demand and a few moments later, the voice of Delta Squad’s leader was crackling over his com, ::This is Arcee of Delta Squad, we’re already in route to the south incoming gate. What do you need?::

Prowl watched the sleek alt mode ahead of him, rapidly narrowing down ideas even as he spoke, ::At his current rate of speed relative to your own distance and speed, he will already be past the south incoming gate by the time you arrive. Split off to cover the main streets connected to South Plaza instead. Cut him off from the streets and use your speed to keep him boxed in once you have made contact. Understood?::

Arcee responded sharply and clearly, seemingly not at all put off at his unexpected in-field order, ::Understood. Delta Squad will comply.::

If Prowl could have, he would’ve nodded in satisfaction. As it was, he simply swerved around a truck who had not gotten out of his way in time as he continued speaking, ::Excellent. Rammer, have all available patrol units converge on these sets of coordinates in five breems, they are to initiate contingency B5.::

Rammer made a low noise as he received Prowl’s coordinates, ::B5? Are you sure? Setting up EMP roadblocks on so many major streets and intersections like that risk-::

Prowl cut him off impatiently, the south incoming gate was approaching fast and Prowl was running out of precious time to enact the contingency that currently had the highest possibility of success, ::B5, Rammer. **Now**!:: Rammer switched frequencies, his action telling Prowl that his orders would be carried out. _Meister is not going to get away this time._

The checkpoint guards at the gate rushed out as soon as they spotted the speeding vehicle barreling toward their station. However, they dived out of the way moments later when two large speakers unsubspaced from the mech’s hood and blasted them with a thunderous sound that no doubt vibrated painfully through their doorwings and audios. _That is not the frequency he used when attempting to knock me out or when he blasted open the gate of Bhutt Plaet’s mansion. I will need to be wary of any other unexpected frequencies in the future then._

Prowl settled more firmly on his tires, straining to make his engine give out more speed. Meister would be reaching the South Plaza in less than twenty kliks and once he was there, Delta Squad would hopefully be in place to box him in. If not, then the roadblocks set up in the predetermined areas should prove enough to at least slow him down enough for capture-

His calculations were abruptly derailed when Meister did something that had shown up in only one of Prowl’s calculations but that he had dismissed as incredibly improbable and dangerous.

Meister swerved off of the main road, the one used for alternate mode travel, and onto the nearest pedestrian street … while still in his alternate mode. Praxian citizens scrambled to the sides and huddled in doorways, shrieking in surprise as they were swerved around or warned away by loud blasts of the speakers protruding from the mech’s hood.

The screams of surprise only increased in volume when Prowl whipped past them, sirens howling loudly, now serving both as a proclamation of his station as an Enforcer on the hunt, and a warning for everyone to get out of his way.

Rammer was shouting at him again over the coms, ::Enforcer Prowl, stand down! You are endangering civilians! **Stand down**!::

Prowl slowed down a fraction before pressing onward at top speed once more, ::He is going to bypass the roadblocks if he remains on these pedestrian streets. I need to force him back onto the main roads!::

Rammer’s hysteria had morphed into some kind of confused rage, ::Not by following him and nearly running innocent bots over! Fragging stand down!::

Prowl didn’t bother telling Rammer that the chances of him hitting a pedestrian were actually very low, they were still too busy huddling to the sides of buildings and such from when Meister had barreled past them to be at risk when Prowl went shooting by.

Prowl mentally multitasked between driving through the narrow streets without hitting anything or anyone and studying the schematics of Praxus City’s southern quadrants, trying to anticipate Meister’s next move and cut him off. The schematics showed that the pedestrian street they were hurtling down would split two ways within a few blocks, one path being a turn in the street, the other a stairway that led to a bridge overlooking the main alternate mode roads, allowing pedestrians to cross the roads without impeding the faster traffic.

Even as his logic drives told him it would be the wisest course, the only relatively sane choice, for Meister to simply take the turn of the road, their current situation and Prowl’s recent memory of seeing Meister flip over the barrier between lanes kept Prowl from being completely surprised when the small car swerved and started bumping up the stairway, using his momentum to keep from getting caught on the ridges of the steps. Prowl swerved as well, transforming in one smooth motion to run up the stairs on his pedes instead of attempting to drive it like Meister had. His alt mode was just a few centimeters too wide to drive between the servo-rails. Meister was scraping off paint up ahead of him as it was.

Meister reached the, thankfully vacant, bridge and roared across it, taillights flashing mockingly at Prowl as the Enforcer transformed and worked to regain his lost speed. Prowl’s processor was straining almost to the point of glitching in an attempt to anticipate the insane and unpredictable thief’s moves. _Bridge leads down to a four way intersection and a sidewalk. Three alleys in nearby vicinity, one dead ends at the back of an apartment building, intersections connect with roads at which the roadblocks are set up, sidewalk is too narrow for his alt mode unless he truly has no compunctions with hitting bystanders. However, hitting bystanders would slow him down, possibly even injure him. Alleys would be his best choice for escape, far left is the one that dead ends. I need to make him go left. If he is unfamiliar with the layout of the city he might take the left, but the odds of that are-_

Once again, Meister defied the odds. But this time, it was in Prowl’s favor. Prowl gave a triumphant growl of his engine as the thief took a tight turn into the leftmost alley, unaware that it was his last mistake. Prowl slid to a stop at the head of the alley, transforming as he did so and unsubspacing his energon pistol. He preferred his acid blaster, but acid could easily prove fatal if it hit the correct energon line or circuit and for all of Prowl’s accuracy with his favored weapon, he was was unwilling to tempt the percentage-defying capabilities Meister appeared to regularly employ.

Prowl stepped further into the alley, cautiously keeping his optics on the turn it made to the right that led to the dead end. Prowl struggled to keep his vents from heaving too loudly, his cooling fans were already whining noisily from the strain of keeping his frame from overheating during the most bizarre and difficult chase in which he had ever engaged.

Prowl’s doorwings flicked attentively, picking up the faint, masked signature of Meister’s spark at the end of the alley, and he smirked faintly. Meister was well and truly trapped at last, ::This is Prowl, I have Meister cornered in an alley at these coordinates. Requesting immediate backup.::

Rammer answered him, sounding like he was torn between elation, awe, and fury for reasons Prowl didn’t bother contemplating at the moment, ::Acknowledged, Prowl. Backup will be arriving in five breems. Chief Sear says for you to keep him there, but not to engage at close range. No sense in risking losing him after all you did to corner him.::

Prowl ignored the accusation of recklessness in Rammer’s tone as he approached the alley corner, ::Acknowledged, Rammer. I will comply.::

Taking one last vent to steady his over-exerted frame, Prowl lowered his doorwing sensitivity as a precaution and stepped around the corner, headlights blazing as impromptu flashlights, energon pistol lowered at approximately waist height to ensure he would be able to stun Meister should the other mech make a mad charge for freedom, “I repeat. Meister, surrender or be taken in by…” his recitation of the order to surrender trailed off as he finally got a good look at the mech he’d been chasing all this time, “You.”

The mech lowered his battle mask and grinned at him cheekily, “Is there a problem, sir?”

Prowl’s doorwings swept into a rigid position of fury, “Jazz of Polyhex, you are hereby under arrest for one hundred and sixty-nine cases of theft, assaulting citizens of Cybertron, and repeatedly resisting arrest. Continued resistance will only increase the severity of your punishment.”

Meister, no, Jazz of Polyhex abruptly unsubspaced his speakers and turned them on. Prowl sensed the high-pitched frequency roll over his doorwings faintly, their sensitivity lowered enough to make it simply an annoying vibration rather than a debilitating shriek of sound. Allowing himself a tiny smirk, Prowl called over the noise he couldn’t hear, “That tactic only works when a mech’s audios are on or their doorwing sensitivity pushed to maximum, **Jazz**.”

The speakers disappeared into Jazz’s subspace, his helm cocking to one side and a scowl slowly sliding into place as he said something. It took a moment for Prowl’s doorwings to pick up and translate the vibrations as, “Ah remember now. Yah were tha officer at tha gardens. Tha one who heard my work an’ came runnin’.” The scowl disappeared with a faint laugh, “Shoulda figured yah’d be on tha team hunting meh. What made yah realize Ah was talking about my little escape trick, Prowler?”

Prowl scowled, “My designation is not Prowler, it is Prowl, and you are in no position to ask questions of me. Besides,” one doorwing flicked triumphantly, “you will hear the full details of my deductions and how I came to them at your trial.”

Jazz’s jaw worked a bit as if he was making a nonverbal noise, but the noise was too faint for Prowl to hear it with his current doorwing sensitivity and Prowl wasn’t about to risk increasing it, “Yeah, one problem wit’ thah, **Prowler**. Ah gotta get back ta tha club Ah’m currently workin’ at an Ah just can’t afford ta spend orns in a cell. How about yah call me when yah got thah court date set an’ Ah’ll see if Ah can clear my schedule?”

Prowl’s doorwings twitched with irritation at the mutilation of his designation and he snarled in a rare show of temper, “You are never returning to the streets of Cybertron as a free mech again. You are under arrest.”

Jazz actually had the audacity to pout, “Aww … Are yah sure yah don’t wanna let me go so we can do this again sometime?”

Prowl blinked once in shock at the sheer … improbability of Jazz’s statement. Mostly, Prowl was only engaging in conversation to stall for time until backup arrived. Keeping Jazz speaking would distract him from attempting to attack Prowl and escape. However, the sheer impropriety of what Jazz was suggesting, of letting a criminal just walk away, would have prompted a response even if Prowl wasn’t attempting to stall, “I am not going to just let you **go**!”

Jazz’s pout grew, “But Ah won tha game, Prowler!”

Prowl scowled darkly, “Firstly, this is not a **game**. Secondly, you are currently trapped in a one-way alley with an armed enforcer who is immune to your weaponized sound blocking your way. In what way have you ‘won’ anything?”

The pout morphed slowly into a grin, “Sure it’s a game, Prowler. It always has been. Ah pull off a crime, enforcers try ta catch me, an when tha enforcers make a mistake, Ah win the round!”

Prowl was about to simply write off Jazz’s ramblings as insane when his processor latched onto something he had said. _Wait, if an enforcer making a mistake counts as “losing” his supposed game, then that means he believes I have made an error. What error could he possibly-?_ As if knowing his internal question, a voice suddenly crackled over his com with a gleeful answer, ::Yah can still hear stuff if your com is open, Prowler.::

Prowl’s optics widened in shock at Jazz’s voice on his inner com, desperately trying to process how the thief had gotten into a private enforcer frequency before his world erupted with a shrieking noise that overloaded his processes and sent him crashing toward the ground in temporary stasis.

* * *

Jazz darted forward and caught the Enforcer before he could smash his faceplate against the pavement, carefully lowering him the rest of the way so that he simply rested there on his front, oblivious to the world. Stepping back, Jazz gave a quick mock salute to the unconscious mech, “Better luck next time, Prowler. Ah’d say for yah to call me when yah wake up but … yah won’t remember anything from at least tha past four breems. Bye!”

Easily ignoring the sirens growing ever louder in the distance, Jazz darted back to the apartment building and hastily scaled it on his servos and pedes, using magnetic pulses to keep himself fromfalling until he had reached the rooftop and taken off.

Only once he was safely back inside the DJ studio of the lunarclub Crystallized did he allow himself to break down laughing from nervous and excited hysteria. That was the best, hardest, most enlivening car chase he had **ever** experienced. His hyper-energized state flowed easily into his music as he took over from the automatic playlist and holographic projector he had set up to make his alibi, causing him to pick music tracks that had the lunarclub patrons dancing frenziedly for the rest of the lunar-cycle. As he watched the mechs and femmes on the dance floor spinning, whirling, and generally having an overcharged and marvelous time, Jazz grinned again.

“Meister” was definitely going to be coming back to Praxus again. After all, someone needed to give Prowl a challenge. It would be the best way to keep the mech’s skills well honed … something that would be beneficial to the citizens of Cybertron. A mech like that with perfected skills? Who knew what horrible murderers and vagabonds he could protect the innocent populace from.

Jazz allowed himself a snigger. Oh yes, Meister would be coming back to Praxus again. It was his civic duty as a mech who could make Prowl work for his credits to ensure the Enforcer never got rusty.

And if that also allowed Jazz to be challenged and entertained for the first time in vorns, well … all the better, right?

Right.

* * *

To: Detective Enforcer Prowl of the Praxus Precinct.

From: Meister.

Hello Prowler! Hope you’re feeling okay after I knocked you out. I didn’t really want to but, such is the way of the game, correct? Anyway, I’m afraid I have business elsewhere for a while, so we will have to postpone our next playdate. Rest assured though, I’ll be back for round two in due time. Until next time!

P.S. You might not want to leave your comlink on all the time, Prowler, it lowers your firewall strength and makes it laughably easy to hack.

P.P.S. Tell your team that they did a great job for their first time. I haven’t had to use the pedestrian streets like that for a long time. But your roadblock placement needs work. It was too easy to anticipate where they’d be.

Prowl stared at the text message that had appeared in the Praxus Precinct inbox, doorwings perfectly still has he tried to decide on a proper reaction. Chief Sear was staring at Prowl expectantly, waiting for a response while Rammer quivered faintly with indignation. Glock looked vaguely bemused at the message while Delta Team’s engines all growled angrily in unison.

The entire team assigned to the, now failed, Meister operation had been called in to view the message, but Chief Sear was clearly more interested in Prowl’s reaction than anyone else’s. Slowly, Sear asked, “Prowl, you are absolutely positive you have no memory files of what happened in that alley?”

Prowl finally looked away from the message, doorwings dipping briefly in shame as he answered, “I am positive, Chief Sear. My last memory is requesting backup as I approached the alley. Then … there is only a high pitched noise.”

Chief Sear sighed, “It is as you hypothesized then. Meister used weaponized sound frequencies to knock you out, with the side effect of erasing short term memory files to prevent his identity from being discovered.”

Glock spoke up, “ **Something** must have happened in that alley, though. Something big. Meister has never done something like this before.”

Goodsight, ever the calm psychologist, cocked her helm thoughtfully, “Indeed. It would appear that whatever occurred in that alley triggered a change in his behavioral patterns. Most likely it stems from the fact that you are the first enforcer to ever nearly catch him. You have awakened his competitive streak.”

Rammer snorted, “Competitive streak? He’s just gloating!”

Goodsight shook her helm, “Oh no, Enforcer Rammer. Meister is not gloating in this message. He is promising. He has gotten a taste for the thrill of a challenge, a challenge that apparently only Enforcer Prowl has ever managed to provide. He is telling the truth in this message, Enforcer Rammer. He will be back … and Prowl is the only one who will have a chance to apprehend him.”

Chief Sear rubbed the sides of his helm tiredly, doorwings drooping briefly before snapping back to their normal position, “There is no sense in talking about it now. We’ll just have to hope another precinct tracks him down before he comes back. Return to your duties everyone, you are all dismissed.” Everyone rose and filed out, Prowl following them mechanically while his processor was busy pondering Meister’s message over and over.

Finally, Prowl flicked his doorwings and pushed the matter away with one final decision. _If Meister wishes to “play” with me. Very well, he may come._

_I will be ready for him next time._


	9. Backstory: Corrupted Oath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sunstreaker and Sideswipe are known in certain circles as the Terror Twins, former twin champions of the Iacon Gladiatorial Arena back before the War was anything more than just a rumor of a rumor. But how they got there and what led them on that path is ... a little more complicated, and tragic, than most people think.

Energon flew, spraying and coating any surface that happened to be near as its regulated channels and tubing was ripped open by a passing blade. The crowd screamed in exhilaration, driven to a frenzy by the sheer amount of carnage coating the ring below them. It was a free-for-all competition, a rare event that only happened when there was a backlog of gladiatorial thralls who had not yet been offlined or when there were more vicious cyber-animals in the pens than necessary.

Rather than quietly dispose of the unnecessary animals or have the masters transfer their gladiatorial thralls to another line of work, the Betting-Master’s Council arranged for a cycle that would have solely a free-for-all event, unleashing wave after wave of thralls and cyber-animals into the ring until only one, or none, remained standing.

The animals fought because it was all they remembered how to do anymore. The thralls fought because of the immeasurable, irresistible prize offered to any thrall that managed to survive the event. The winner would not only be given a hefty cut of the bet earnings, but would be allowed to leave the Arena with the one thing he or she had not had in vorns.

Freedom.

Of course, some masters chose not to allow their thralls to participate. To not risk losing an asset to either offlining or freedom. However, most saw only the massive earnings that could be gained from having their thrall join the free-for-all event, enough to easily cover the loss of one thrall several times over and thus, the rare free-for-all events were hailed as the most brutal and enjoyable to watch of all possible gladiatorial events.

Particularly this one, seeing as how it was not just a group of low-level thralls battling it out against cyber-animals and each other. Everyone had heard of how Iacon’s most famous participants, hailed as Champions despite their status as thralls, had been entered into the event. All who came took their seats with excited expectations of carnage and one-sided slaughter unlike any event before.

The Terror Twins had yet to disappoint.

Sunstreaker pivoted on his wheels, the edge of his right-servo sword whipping across the face of the lunging cyber-wolf that had been attempting to charge him from behind. It reared backward with a howl of pain that abruptly fizzled into static as Sunstreaker followed his first blow with a vicious stab from his left sword through an exposed crack in the creature’s chest armor, spearing straight through its spark casing with an audible screech of metal.

Behind him, Sideswipe held off a spear-wielding thrall who had tried to reach Sunstreaker while the latter worked on pulling his sword free of the offlined cyber-wolf. Grabbing the spear as the mech attempted a stabbing lunge, Sideswipe pulled the mech closer to him, dragging him off balance so the mech was unprepared for Sideswipe’s vicious helm-butt.

Sideswipe then spun on his wheeled heel-struts, still dragging the stunned mech forward by the spear, and threw him over his shoulder just as Sunstreaker pulled his sword free and whirled low. The world seemed to slow for a fraction of a klik as Sunstreaker and Sideswipe operated in perfect sync, Sunstreaker’s blade whistling through the air just as the mech’s body went vertical to the ground in mid-air. Sunstreaker’s blade parted the mech’s helm from his shoulders, offlining him before the two frame parts even hit the ground.

The twins were already moving again, cutting through the frenzied battle, covering each other’s weak spots, never letting an opponent near their twin unless that twin was waiting with a sword to plunge through the opponent’s spark. All around, the roars of animals and the screams of mechs fighting desperately for a prize only twenty mechs had ever won in the long history of the Iacon Arena mingled with the howls of the audience watching the energon-bath.

Sunstreaker surged through the battle, optics flicking left and right to target potentially dangerous opponents while they were occupied with another. A massive cyber-bear with only one remaining optic, a veteran of the Arena for over fifty vorns, went down to Sideswipe’s expert shot through its remaining optic. A thrall named Backlash, a rank five fighter with long-reaching energon-whips, never even got a chance to understand who had stabbed him through the backplates as Sunstreaker shot past, using his momentum to drag his blade free of his latest kill.

All around there was only fighting, slaughter, and death. All around there was only the wails of the offlining and the cheers of those who found joy in watching the demise of mechs who were deemed not even as valuable as the cyber-animals they currently fought.

It was all around them, drawing them in and staining their frames even as they caused more death, encouraged more cheers with their swift and merciless rampage through the Arena, determined to leave nothing and no one else alive.

For vorns now, a part of Sunstreaker’s processor had ceaselessly reminded him that it hadn’t always been that way. That it wasn’t **supposed** to be that way.

That part of Sunstreaker’s mind was being oddly quiet this cycle. Perhaps finally smothered under the roar of the Arena, the volume of which currently exceeded any volume that could be attained by a mere two or three mech match. Motion blurred on the edge of Sunstreaker’s vision and he sent an impulse of warning to Sideswipe, so fast and condensed it was barely even the words, _“my left!”_ Sideswipe’s blaster fired almost the same instant Sunstreaker sent the message, sending the speeding turbo-cheetah crashing to the ground with a hole in its helm.

The breems blended together into joors, and the joors into such a long period of time as to make the selection and elimination of targets oddly monotonous.

_It isn’t supposed to be this way._ The little, increasingly feeble part of Sunstreaker’s mind finally spoke up again. Sunstreaker felt his lips twist into an ugly expression in response and his tired frame become alive with rage as he answered, _no it isn’t. But this is the way it is._

**Flashback: Iacon, Mid-Caste Levels. Age: First Frame.**

Sunstreaker bounced eagerly in his seat next to his twin, trying to will their transportation into going faster. Sideswipe pressed his face against the window and whined, “Are we there **yet** , Opi?”

Their transportation vibrated softly as he laughed, “Not yet, Sideswipe. It’s only a few more breems of driving. I didn’t expect traffic to be this heavy.”

Sunstreaker scowled impatiently, he’d been on his absolute best behavior for an entire orn to earn this trip, and now traffic was holding them up! Crossing his arms over his chest, he huffed, “Just turn on your sirens Opi, then everyone will get out of our way!”

This statement got a vaguely exasperated sigh from their Opi, “It doesn’t work like that, Sunstreaker. I can only use my sirens when I’m on my way to an emergency. You two will just have to be patient.”

Sunstreaker thudded the back of his helm against his seat as Sideswipe voiced their joint complaint, “We **have**! We’ve been patient **forever**! We want to be there already!”

Their Opi huffed faintly, “It’s not all that exciting, Sideswipe, you’ll probably be disappointed.”

Sideswipe shook his helm, “It’s where you work to catch bad mechs, Opi! There’s no way it could be boring! ‘Sides, Handlebar tells us stories about it all the time and they’re plenty exciting!”

A flicker of exasperation leaked over their bond with their Opi as he muttered something about having a talk with Handlebar later. Raising his voice back to normal levels, their Opi said, “Well, Handlebar tends to only tell you about the few times something interesting actually does happen, the station isn’t like that most of the time.”

Sunstreaker and Sideswipe both refused to believe their Opi on the matter of how exciting his profession was. After all, if nothing ever happened, then why did he come home dented so late so often?

Finally, they arrived at their destination and their Opi opened his doors to let them out. Sideswipe rocketed out with a whoop, Sunstreaker right behind him like a streak of yellow lightning. Their Opi transformed and stretched a bit while the twins looked up in awe at their beloved creator’s place of work.

It was, in all actuality, just a minor substation of the Iacon Precinct. The sprawling size of Iacon necessitated several such stations, each one containing a fully functioning staff and enforcer roster operating on much smaller scale than the central Precinct.

However, to Sunstreaker and Sideswipe, it was simultaneously the most blessed, cursed, exciting, and mysterious place in all of Iacon. Filled with enforcers like their Opi, all doing their best to protect the innocent, uphold the law, and catch the bad mechs. Even if Sunstreaker got angry sometimes at how busy his Opi was, or how scared he became when his Opi came back injured and exhausted, both of the twins still admired their Opi’s profession above all others.

Both had agreed several vorns ago that as soon as they were old enough, they would go to the Enforcers Academy and become Enforcers just like their Opi and his awesome partner Handlebar. Even if their Opi had repeatedly stated that he thought Sunstreaker should become a member of the Arts Caste because of his budding talent with paints. Sunstreaker had considered it repeatedly, but in the end always caved to Sideswipe’s plea for them to both become Enforcers.

Their Opi’s partner was already waiting for them outside of the station, a large grin on his faceplates as he watched the twins gape and chatter, “Primus, Swiftshot. One of the few cycles you don’t have to come in to work and where do I find you? At the station. How does that happen?”

Their Opi, Swiftshot, rubbed the back of his helm a little ruefully, “Well … I’ve been promising to take them on a tour of the station for orns now on the condition that they actually **behave** at school. They met their end of the bargain, so … here we are.”

Sideswipe rushed up to Handlebar, optics glowing with excitement, “What’cha doing Handlebar? Are you bringing in a criminal? Solving a case? About to go on a chase? Did you-”

Handlebar held up a servo to staunch Sideswipe’s stream of babble, his shoulders shaking with laughter as he did so, “Slow down, Sideswipe, or you’ll fritz out your vocalizer! Technically, I’m just here to finish up some last-breem paperwork I couldn’t get done by the end of my shift last lunar-cycle, but…”

His tone trailed off suggestively as his optics rose to look at Swiftshot, who groaned and face palmed immediately, “ **No** , Handlebar. I am not doing your paperwork for you while you take my younglings to all of the strictly off-limits areas of the station.”

Handlebar held a servo to his chest in mock hurt, “What, me? Would I do that? Come on, Swiftshot, I’d just show them to the … interesting parts of the station. The holding cells, the interrogation room, maybe the practice obstacle courses…”

Sunstreaker’s optics widened with interest at the listing of places, curiosity peaked even as Swiftshot argued with Handlebar over which areas of the station were youngling-friendly and which ones weren’t. Sideswipe bounced on his pedes, his bond with his twin vibrating with a vibrant hope to see all of the places Handlebar wanted to show them.

Still arguing with Handlebar, Swiftshot finally herded them through the front doors of the station and into the main room. Mechs, all bearing the Iacon-Branch Enforcer Corps insignia, abounded. Some chatted as they ambled from one place to another, others hunched over desktop computers, busily typing away at something or another. Sideswipe oohed and awed loudly while Sunstreaker looked around with large optics at everything there was to see.

Some of the mechs, overhearing or spotting the twin younglings, smiled indulgently at them before calling greetings and goodnatured jibes to Swiftshot. Swiftshot returned the jibes just as good-naturedly even as he followed his younglings around, experience in their trouble-attracting ways making him keep both of them in sight at all times.

A large plaque on the wall caught Sunstreaker’s attention and he scurried over to it to read. It looked a bit like a poem, but the words didn’t rhyme. He squinted at it in confusion and read aloud, “We of the Enforcers Corps do solemnly swear to never betray our insignia, our integrity, our sparks, or the public trust. To always have the courage to hold ourselves and others accountable for our actions. To maintain the laws of Cybertron, protect the communities of Iacon and uphold our honor as members of this, the Enforcer Corps. This we do so swear upon our insignias, our sparks, the AllSpark, and Primus.”

During Sunstreaker’s careful recitation, Sideswipe had wandered over to stand next to him, helm cocked at the sight of the plaque. Swiftshot crouched down behind them, laying a servo on each of their shoulders, “That, Sunstreaker, is the oath of the Enforcers Corps. All members swear to, and live by, that oath.”

Sunstreaker turned his helm to look at his Opi, “All of them?”

Swiftshot nodded, his expression utterly serious, “All of them. Handlebar, Chief Spiro, myself … everyone you see here have taken this oath and hold it close to our sparks. This is what it means to be an Enforcer. Every one of us would fight and offline to fulfill that oath, and that’s the way it should be.”

Sunstreaker looked back at the plaque thoughtfully, the utter conviction reverberating through his bond with Swiftshot making him think that there was something heavy, something important about what Swiftshot was saying that Sunstreaker couldn't quite grasp. Swiftshot sensed the lack of understanding from his younglings and smiled faintly, “You’ll understand when you’re older. Especially if you do, in fact, join the Corps. Now come on, we have more things to see.”

Sunstreaker and Sideswipe happily followed their creator, Sideswipe already asking questions about everything he saw while Handlebar tagged along with a big smile on his face. Sunstreaker was just as enthralled as his twin with the station and enamored with the stories Handlebar kept hinting at despite Swiftshot’s efforts to silence him. However, off all the things they saw that cycle, the oath on the plaque and his Opi’s words stayed clearest in Sunstreaker’s memory to be lingered over and contemplated often.

**End of Flashback.**

_“Each of us would fight and offline to fulfill that oath, and that’s the way it should be.”_ He’d believed those words, believed them with all of his spark. Until the cycle everything came crashing down. Until the cycle it all became a lie.

Sunstreaker felt a snarl explode from his engine as the memories, replaying dimply in the back of his processor where they would not hinder his fighting, caused another wave of hatred and rage to course through him. It reverberated over his bond with Sideswipe, triggering his twin’s own subconscious remembrance of what had happened and causing Sideswipe to let loose a wild battle yell as a similar hatred roared up in his spark.

Three cyber-lionesses fell in quick succession to their joint attack, unable to defend against searing blaster bolts and Sunstreaker’s lightning-quick swords at the same time. Sideswipe turned to fire at the back of an unsuspecting mech while Sunstreaker rolled to cover his twin’s back as a mech equipped with servo claws and shoulder blasters lunged for the red twin. The red static buzzing on the edges of Sunstreaker’s vision suddenly caused him stumble over the limp tail of one of the fallen cyber-lionesses, his stance faltering just as the enemy mech lunged for him.

Dimly, he could hear the crowd gasping at his stumble, at the streak of energon-stained claws flashing toward his neck cables in a vicious uppercut. Sunstreaker rolled with his stumble, twisting to one side as he fell into an improvised combat roll. The move saved his neck cables, but even over the cacophony of the battle raging all around, the sound of claws scraping across his paint seemed to echo loudly.

Sunstreaker rolled and twisted across the energon-slick ground, coming out of the roll behind and to the side of the startled attacker. As the attacker spun to face him, Sunstreaker stared down blankly at the three long scratches on his frame, blemishing his already stained and abused paint.

The three scratches suddenly morphed into something else, the energon stains suddenly belonging to someone else from long ago and Sunstreaker’s spark faltered from the pain, the long-festering grief, the “should haves”, “could haves”, and “didn’t’s”. Sunstreaker looked up slowly, lips curling into an expression that would have seemed much more appropriate on one of the few wild animals left in the Arena. Sideswipe turned abruptly from what he’d been shooting at, face twisting into an identical expression as he felt his twin’s impending holographic flux.

A guilty, accusing voice in Sunstreaker’s processor started up, chanting over and over without end, “Your fault, your fault, your fault.” The chant hurt his spark with each repetition and threatened to make Sunstreaker lose himself within his own processor and memories. Instead of giving in to the flux, Sunstreaker channeled it with ease born of desperate practice, mentally warping the chant until it was focused not on a mech of memory, but on the mech in front of him that Sideswipe was currently distracting. **_Your fault_** _!_ Sunstreaker lunged, swords raised and engine revving madly, ignoring the laughter of the commentators as they joked about Sunstreaker’s infamous sensitivity over his appearance and frame.

_Your fault!_ He screamed it mentally as he worked with Sideswipe to decimate the clawed mech, his swords biting through shoulder-mounted blasters while Sideswipe shot the mech’s pedes out from under him, leaving the startled mech vulnerable to Sunstreaker’s vicious stab through the back. _Your fault! Your fault! Your fault!_

**Flashback: Iacon, Mid-Caste Market District. Age: Second Frame.**

Sideswipe waved his arms enthusiastically as he regaled Swiftshot with a tale of the culmination of an epic prank war that had broken out in the Iacon Enforcer Academy dorms, ignoring Sunstreaker’s attempts over their bond to shut him up. All three of them walked casually down a pedestrian street, Swiftshot on the left, closest to the Alt Mode road, Sideswipe in the middle, and Sunstreaker on the right trying to keep his twin from accidentally hitting someone in the faceplate with his waving arms.

“So then, Sunstreaker and I put pink tinting in Dorm Three’s wash solvent. You know, the kind that doesn’t come off of the frame until at least four metacycles later? Anyway, no one noticed us do it ‘cause I’d hacked the cameras to play a scene of an empty wash racks on loop for ten breems, which gave us plenty of time to rig the pink tinting and get out before anyone noticed.”

Swiftshot raised his optic ridges and Sunstreaker groaned at the blatant admission of hacking Academy property while Sideswipe continued on obliviously, “So the next cycle after obstacle course training, the sergeant said that there’d be an inspection of the recruits and everyone had fifteen breems to wash off and clean up. Of course, Barricade and his crew were in so much of a hurry, they didn’t even notice the pink tinting until they’d all lined up for inspection and the Superintendent himself pointed it out!”

Sideswipe cackled happily and Sunstreaker resisted the urge to do so as well. He knew their Opi would not approve of the prank war or the methods Sideswipe and he had used to win it but really, Barricade and the other transfer students from Kaon had been literally **asking** for it. Swiftshot finally interjected into the flow of Sideswipe’s story, “I’m not sure hacking computers is a good skill for an Enforcer to have, Sideswipe.”

Sideswipe cocked his helm, puzzled, “Why not? The criminals are going to have computers too. The gangs in particular are going to have hideouts with security cameras. How better to make sure a surprise raid goes without a problem than to hack the cameras and make sure no one sees us coming?”

Swiftshot chuckled softly, “I suppose you have a point, Sideswipe, just so long as you use your … unique skill set to uphold the Oath and not…” Swiftshot’s voice trailed off, a long vacant look coming over his expression and his bond briefly flickering with feelings of fatigue and despair.

All humor at recounting the prank vanished from Sideswipe and Sunstreaker frowned in concern at Swiftshot, “Opi?”

Swiftshot shook his helm, “It’s nothing.”

Sunstreaker narrowed his optics, “It doesn’t look or feel like ‘nothing’. You look exhausted, Opi, and you have for the past two visits.”

Swiftshot gave Sunstreaker a faint smile, “You’ll make a very good detective when you graduate Sunstreaker. But it really is nothing. I’ve just been helping out on a particularly tough case the past few metacycles and it’s starting to wear me down. But I’ll have it wrapped up soon and then I can get the recharge I-”

The scream of tires and the roar of an engine in a pedestrian heavy area made all three stiffen and spin to look at the street. The alt mode, low-slung and fast, whipped around the corner up ahead of them and came shooting down the wrong lane of traffic, the lane closest to them. Sunstreaker and Sideswipe bristled, ready to put their training to use and help their Opi catch the reckless speeder … and then everything went irreversibly wrong.

Sunstreaker would never forget the moment the window rolled down as the vehicle went roaring past, allowing a mini-con to stick the barrel of a blaster twice its size out the open window.

He would never forget the moment Swiftshot lunged to place himself fully between his younglings and the vehicle just as the blaster fired, sending five heavy projectile rounds ripping through his frame.

He would never, ever forget the moment his Opi went sprawling to the ground in a crash of metal and spray of life-fluids, their creator-creation bond surging with blinding agony for a moment before it was suddenly shielded off by Swiftshot’s fractured iron spark-shields.

He would never forget the sound of Sideswipe’s screams as the vehicle drove away without slowing, leaving Swiftshot gasping weakly on the ground, energon pooling rapidly all around his frame.

Sunstreaker jolted and stumbled to his Opi’s side, servos shaking as he knelt by his parent, unheeding yet still panicking at the energon sticking and smearing across his golden armor as he dragged Swiftshot into his lap, trying to use the position to stem the flood of energon and other life-fluids. Swiftshot’s vents were wheezing and churning, continually having to restart as they became clogged with energon that shouldn’t have been there. Above them, Sideswipe screamed for something, a medic or help maybe, Sunstreaker didn’t know and couldn’t hear, his attention focused solely on Swiftshot and the throbbing sensation leaking through Swiftshot’s cracked spark-shields.

Swiftshot’s optics flickered on and off a few times before settling and rising to stare into Sunstreaker’s faceplates, “S-sun-… Sunstreaker…”

Sunstreaker shook his helm, processor running over the first aid lessons the instructors had drilled into his helm as he unsubspaced an emergency medical field kit and started prying off Swiftshot’s armor, “D-don’t speak! Don’t-! Just lie still and s-stay awake! I c-can help! I-I can-”

The contents of his tank rushed up into his mouth as he pried off the last of Swiftshot’s chest armor and saw his Opi’s internals. The damage was massive. The projectile rounds had ripped through cables, tubing, and his main energon pump. The bullets were still in his frame, their jagged, momentum torn edges doing much more damage than a regular blaster bolt.

The first aid lessons hadn’t covered this. Hadn’t covered anything like this. Broken limbs and cable leaking had been covered, how to keep a partner alive from cut cables and blaster bolt injuries until a medic could attend to the injured party had been covered. But not this. Not the sheer, tangled mass of damage wrought by five heavy projectile rounds.

Swallowing with difficulty, he was in not position to purge his tanks and didn’t have time to waste feeling sick, Sunstreaker began pulling clamps out of the medical kit, vaguely aware of Sideswipe driving back the gawking, screaming crowd with his snarling engine and waving training blaster. Sunstreaker started clamping off energon lines, servos shaking so badly he slipped a few times and got his servos coated in the flow of leaking energon before managing to seal off the chosen line.

An aching, cold feeling began to fill his spark as he worked frantically, vocalizer babbling out reassurances that he wanted to be truth but somehow knew were lies, trying to keep Swiftshot quiet as his Opi attempted repeatedly to speak. Finally, Swiftshot gave up talking and unsubspaced something, the activity causing his vents to gasp and choke more frantically and a flicker of pain to rip across their steadily closing off bond.

Sunstreaker started to yell at Swiftshot to stop exerting himself when Swiftshot raised one of his servos to Sunstreaker’s chest plates, a datachip clutched in his grasp, “T-take this … you must take this … I-it’s … it’s a l-list…” Sunstreaker started to move the servo back down but Swiftshot forced it back against Sunstreaker’s chest plates, griping the edge of Sunstreaker’s golden armor with his fingers desperately.

Swiftshot looked Sunstreaker in the optic, a feverishly desperate light in his gaze as he rasped out, “List of … mechs in the station … the Corps … being bought. T-they … they’re overlooking i-illegal activity f-for credits … I was gathering … evidence against … trying t-to stop … the corruption…”

The cold feeling was spreading rapidly, making it harder and harder to feel Swiftshot’s spark beyond the wall in the bond and Sunstreaker felt his optics blurring with tears, “What are you saying? Why-?”

Swiftshot pushed with the servo clutching Sunstreaker’s armor a little, a faint scraping noise rising from the motion, “Take this. I-it’s the evidence … give it to- … don’t let … don’t let…” Swiftshot’s words were suddenly cut off by a hacking fit, and something started to rip deep inside Sunstreaker. It was like a tether, an anchor keeping him grounded in an eternal storm, was suddenly starting to fail.

Sideswipe turned away from the crowd at the sound of the hacking, optics wide and terrified, streaming with tears, “Opi?”

Swiftshot looked at them, previous sentence seemingly forgotten as he whispered fervently, desperately, “I love … you two … so much … stay … stay … safe…” Swiftshot’s grip on Sunstreaker’s armor suddenly loosened, his fingers sliding down his youngling’s armor reluctantly, slightly clawed fingertips and tightly held datachip leaving long trails of destroyed paint and polish behind them. The tether inside Sunstreaker and Sideswipe suddenly snapped and the feeling of cold exploded into agony unlike anything the twins had ever felt at exactly the same moment Swiftshot’s spark-shields dissolved … to reveal nothing left behind them.

Twin screams rent the air as Sunstreaker and Sideswipe collapsed on the ground, unable to process anything beyond the all-consuming absence tearing through their sparks and lives.

**Flashback: Unknown location in Iacon, one orn later.**

After they had woken up from their catatonic state in a hospital, Sunstreaker had called Handlebar to the hospital, weakly giving him the datachip and explaining what Swiftshot had told him. Sunstreaker had been dizzy and numb and **so sure** that Handlebar would fix things, take care of things in Swiftshot’s memory. Handlebar had practically raised Sunstreaker and Sideswipe alongside Swiftshot, cared for them, taught them, watched over them when Swiftshot was too busy. He was Swiftshot’s **partner**. Trusting Handlebar was such an instinctive thing, the only remaining anchor Sunstreaker had to keep him from falling into the lifeless, trance-like state Sideswipe was currently entrapped in, that he hadn’t noticed the pained, guilty look had crossed Handlebar’s faceplates as he accepted the chip.

The next time Sunstreaker woke up, his twin and he were not in the hospital, but in a barred cell with a handler standing over the two, snarling that they were thralls now and they were to get up and work. Sunstreaker hadn’t known what to do, what to think, so he had dragged Sideswipe up and followed the handler’s orders mechanically. He was numb yet agonized over the shattered bond with his Opi, desperately trying to keep his own twin from fading away from the grief and shock and survivor’s guilt. Sideswipe was unresponsive to all but the bluntest of orders, to the point where Sunstreaker had to tell him to consume his ration of energon. Sideswipe was fighting to come out of his trance, Sunstreaker could feel it, but … he couldn’t. Sunstreaker knew that if he hadn’t been there every klik since Swiftshot’s- since The Incident, Sideswipe would have already given up and joined the Well of AllSparks.

But then, as cycles went on, Sunstreaker realized what had happened. Remembered what he had seen in the hospital but not noticed at the time. Sunstreaker had gone on a rampage, pulling Sideswipe’s raw despair into his own spark as fuel for his ire, maiming and killing any mech in his path and screaming Handlebar’s designation until a handler had finally managed to trigger Sunstreaker’s newly installed Thrall shutdown sequence.

Now, Sunstreaker stood, glaring through the shimmering energy bars at Handlebar, shaking uncontrollably as Handlebar told him that Sunstreaker should be thankful. Told him that if it hadn’t been for Handlebar speaking with Bhutt Plaet, the noble who’d been steadily buying off Enforcers, and convincing him that twin thralls would be a rare prize, Sunstreaker and Sideswipe would already be dead for what they knew. As it was, they had been wiped from the records, their names obliterated from any registry, replaced with two fake names and listed as offlined from spark shock. They would be allowed to live in secret as Bhutt Plaet’s thralls, never to speak of the corruption they knew of or the murder they had seen.

Thankful. Thankful for what? Thankful for being betrayed by the mech they trusted most next to their Opi and each other? Thankful for being given over as thralls, tools, because Handlebar and the other Enforcers wanted no one to know about how they had broken their oath? Thankful for watching, **feeling** , their Opi offline in the street because he knew too much? Because Handlebar had reported to the other traitors that Swiftshot was catching on to them?

**Thankful**?

Sunstreaker saw red. He slammed against the bars of his shared cell with Sideswipe, unable to feel the pain of the collision or the sizzle of the energy against his frame as he lunged to grab the mech in front of him. Handlebar jerked back, barely out of reach of Sunstreaker’s flailing servo as Sunstreaker felt something snap and unravel in his mind, twisting and warping until it hardened into something else entirely, something dangerous. Something terrifying.

The feeling seared across his bond with Sideswipe, triggering a similar change, yet not an identical one. For the first time in an orn, Sunstreaker felt Sideswipe’s awareness flood their bond and knew his brother was back. Their bond pulled and tugged, strengthening and changing even as Sunstreaker snarled savagely at the mech outside who dared look startled and regretful.

Sideswipe felt grief, Sunstreaker felt hate. Sideswipe felt hurt, Sunstreaker felt the desire **to** hurt. Sideswipe clung grimly to the shredded parts of him that knew mischief, knew pranks and laughter even if those things seemed impossibly far away at the moment, Sunstreaker threw those things into the fire of his rage as fuel. Sideswipe would forever remember the Oath their Opi had sworn to and mourn, Sunstreaker would remember the Oath and only see how much of a **lie** it had become.

Sunstreaker abruptly pulled back from the bars, frame heaving as he remembered the scratch marks his Opi’s falling servo had left on his frame, forever there, mirrored in his processor no matter how much he used the buffer given to thralls to upkeep their appearance. He remembered the stain of energon all over his frame, still sticking to his paint no matter how he irked their handler by lingering in the wash racks trying to wash it off.

Sideswipe slid off of the cot in the back of the cell and moved to stand with his twin, memories of his own flickering through his processor. Memories of pranks that Swiftshot had scolded them over for risking, the illegal things they had done in the name of fun. So many skills that could be used for such devastating purpose if given the right target and motivation…

In that moment, Sunstreaker and Sideswipe stopped being the innocent, mischief-making twins who were so alike in manner and personality. They split, raggedly and unevenly, then slammed back together and polarized, each holding onto pieces of themselves that the other did not. They were the dark to each other’s light, and the light to each other’s shadow. They were one, yet they were not. Identical yet contradicting. Two halves that no longer made a whole, yet could not be separated by any force that existed on Cybertron.

Sunstreaker spoke, his voice utterly flat and calm, “Do you remember the plaque on the station wall, Handlebar? The one you swore upon your spark, upon the AllSpark, to uphold and protect? You broke that oath,” his helm tilted slightly, “so some cycle in the future…”

Sideswipe spoke up, just as calm and flat, “maybe soon, maybe not…”

They finished together, utter conviction and promise in their voices, “We will find you and see that you pay the price for breaking that oath. You will repay that debt with your spark, Handlebar. **This** we so swear on **our** sparks, the AllSpark, and Primus.”

By the time they had finished speaking, Handlebar was shaking, his faceplate twisted in an expression of fear at the unnatural synchronization of their voices, the deadly intent in their words, the conviction shining from their optics. He had let them live, and sooner or later he would no longer be alive to regret it.

Handlebar fled and the twins watched him go without a word. They still did not speak when their new handler arrived and told them that because of Sunstreaker’s earlier rampage, they were to be signed up as Bhutt Plaet’s newest gladiatorial thralls. The twins had only looked at each other silently, each acknowledging what the other was thinking. The semi-legal Iacon Arena stood for practically everything Swiftshot had been against. To succeed in the Arena was to become everything their Opi had never wanted them to be. But to succeed in the Arena was the only chance they would have at survival, at fulfilling their newly made oath.

They were not like Handlebar. They would fulfill their oath. So they fought, they won, they became the champion monsters of the Arena that none could beat. They honed their proverbial teeth so that they would one cycle be sharp enough to deliver the promise they fully intended to keep no matter how many vorns it took.

They became the Terror Twins.

**End Flashback.**

Sunstreaker rammed his sword up to its hilt in the chest plates of the mech in front of him. Apathetically, he watched and waited for the light to completely fade from his opponent’s optics before ripping his blade free and looking up to realize that there was, at long last, total silence in the Arena grounds. Straightening up slowly, Sunstreaker went back to back with Sideswipe and looked around to double-check that everything else in the Arena was, in truth, offlined.

For several kliks, there was silence in the audience stands as they too waited to see if it was truly over. Then one by one, they leapt to their pedes cheering, a deafening thunder of sound that washed over Sunstreaker meaninglessly. Wordlessly, Sideswipe and Sunstreaker turned to look at the box seats where the Iacon Betting-Master’s Council and the nobles who had entered thralls were sitting, optics challenging them to fail their end of the deal.

Just as wordlessly, the head of the Betting-Master’s Council raised a control remote and typed something in, never taking his optics off of the two panting and grisly warriors left alive in the Arena. Sunstreaker could feel the moment his slave coding dissolved, vanishing completely and leaving him unchained. A quick check over his bond with Sideswipe confirmed that he too had just earned freedom at last. Grudgingly, Sunstreaker dipped his helm in acknowledgement of the Council-mech’s actions while Sideswipe, grinning the razor-edged smile expected of Iacon’s red Terror Twin, acknowledged the crowd’s cheering with sweeping bows.

As Sunstreaker straightened his helm and turned to leave the Arena for hopefully the last time, his optics caught sight of a praxian in the nobles’ row of seats. Bhutt Plaet. Ever so briefly, Sunstreaker caught the mech’s gaze and held it, observing the slowly dawning terror on the noble’s face.

Perhaps Bhutt Plaet had forgotten why he had twin thralls, perhaps he had assumed that the two would die in the free-for-all event and finally get rid of two loose ends in his budding criminal empire. But at that moment, when an energon-stained warrior locked gazes with a puppeteering murderer, Bhutt Plaet could feel his end coming upon him.

The Terror Twins left the Arena, and their slavery, behind. Showering off briefly in the communal wash racks provided for volunteer gladiators to clean up before going home, they then left the building entirely and transformed, heading for the highway.

They had a traitor to find and a vorns-old oath to keep.

_The strongest of the monsters you fear, are the ones you created yourself._


End file.
